A Storm Over The Mojave
by Rain Nero
Summary: After following a mysterious robed figure into the desert, Rain finds himself thrust into the Mojave Wasteland. Not all is as it first appears. Self-Insert. Rating may change depending on future content.
1. Entry 001

**Disclaimer: Fallout is owned by Bethesda.**

**001**

* * *

Across the dry ground stood a hunched figure. I was never sure what possessed me to trail the robe-obscured being across the breadth of the United States, yet there I was. Beyond the figure rested a great stone ring, some relic of ancient times that hadn't quite been worn away by the desert.

"It's quite amazing, really," The figure spoke at last, his voice bearing a growling tone that didn't quite sound human. "When last this portal was used, it carried the man I followed back in time. For me, it seems to have done so much _more_."

A soft hum began to fill my senses, more felt than heard, and I got the distinct impression that the figure was smiling under his hood's shadow.

"You intend to follow me, don't you?" He asked, stepping toward the ring of stone. The air in the ring's opening seemed to shimmer and shift into shapes that my mind couldn't quite make sense of, but that didn't stop the figure from moving closer and closer to it. "This goes beyond mere curiosity. Some part of you already knows who I am, what my presence represents. Your conscious mind just won't accept the possibility."

The figure let out a coughing bark of a laugh and stepped into the ring... then vanished from existence, as quick as that. Without any forethought, I chased after him, right into that field of impossibility. There was darkness, then redness and whiteness. I could feel the straining of time and the cosmos itself trying to decide what to do with me. I was weighed and judged by forces that mortal minds were not meant to know or understand.

After what felt like an eternity my senses finally reported something I could understand. Wherever I'd ended up was cold, and I could feel the shifting grit of sand under me as I slowly rose into a crouch. I was still in the Mojave desert, but something was definitely off about it. Night had fallen, and a large full moon illuminated the world in a ghostly silver light. There was a crackle of electricity, and a tingling in my limbs. The sand around me lit up with repeated electric discharges, creating small pockets of muddy glass. Once the lightning effects stopped, I rose to my feet and immediately felt another difference.

A quick examination showed that my body had been 'reset' to average physical condition, and I couldn't feel the tightness in my chest caused by a deformed heart and lungs at birth. Someone, or some_thing_ had fixed years of medical problems and a sedentary lifestyle. But for what? All I did was follow that robed guy through the ring. That was hardly an achievement...

"Hey, you hear that?" I heard a rough voice say nearby. It didn't sound like anybody I'd want to meet in a dark alley... or a desert, for that matter. I dropped into a low crouch and turned in the direction the voices came from. Lo and behold, there were two men standing by a campfire and rusted camper. Both were dressed in the torn and dirtied remains of some sort of police uniform. Even from that distance, I could make out the 'NCRCF' letters standing out on the back. I could only assume these guys were escaped convicts who had managed to escape custody and take out a few prison guards on the way. Only one was looking my way, and I could make out the wooden handle of a kitchen knife sticking out of his belt. The other had a handgun tucked into his back pocket, marking him as the priority target.

I flinched and shook my head, wondering just when I'd decided that I was going to confront these guys.

"Probably just a coyote," The Pistol-packer said, "The powder charges will take care of it if it gets too close."

_Powder charges?_ I thought, then shifted my focus from the men to the ground around their campsite. They were _very _hard to spot, but I did see a few rusted tin cans with something strapped to them by electrical tape. If they weren't makeshift proximity mines, I'd eat my boots.

"And what happens if something _else_ shows up after the coyote blows the charge? Coyotes ain't got shit on some of the stuff around these parts. Man, you've got a gun, go shoot it," Knifey said. The pistol-packer released a stream of curses and turned in my direction, checked the ground, and then started moving in my direction. I wasn't sure how long I had before he would see me, but I remained as still as possible and hoped for the best.

My body tensed like a coiled spring as the convict came closer and closer without actually seeing me, his knife-wielding compatriot watching nervously from the campfire. The distance shortened more and more. At last I sprang into an uppercut that made the man stumble backwards, clutching his jaw. Ignoring the shout of his companion, I quickly followed up with a basic CQC takedown that drove the man headfirst into the sand. Hearing running footsteps, I grabbed the pistol from the downed convict's pocket and leveled it at the approaching knife-wielder. The dirt-covered Caucasian froze in his tracks, knife held over his head in an almost comical fashion. Too bad nobody was laughing. Closest I got was a grunt of pain as I stomped the back of my first victim's head to make sure he stayed down.

"Drop your weapon!" I commanded, flipping off the pistol's safety and taking it in a proper aiming stance. The convict complied, dropping his kitchen knife and raising his hands above his head.

"Look man, don't kill me! Whatever you want, just don't kill me!" He pleaded.

"Move away from the knife," I continued. Once the man had complied and moved far enough away, I advanced, keeping mental track of the route used by the downed man. In all truth, I was acting a lot more confident than I felt. Everything up to that point had been pure luck. I'd learned everything I knew about CQC from Metal Gear Solid, for goodness' sake! I kept the pistol aimed as I reached down and retrieved the knife. As I expected, it was a chef's knife you might find in any well-stocked kitchen, but it would serve as a close range weapon until I could find something more suitable.

"Hands on your head, down on your knees," I continued my instruction. The convict hastened to comply, which made me wonder just how he'd managed to escape prison if he was this meek. I heard something shift and click behind me, and saw my prisoner's eyes widen in delight. Instinct took over as I turned and blocked an overhand strike from the first convict, who had retrieved a collapsible impact baton from one of his other pockets. He wasn't in very good shape after our previous scuffle, with blood running from his mouth and a few bruises starting to form. I disengaged from the block and took a step back, turning so I could keep both convicts in my sight.

"You don't just fuck with the Powder Gangers and walk away," The armed convict spat, charging at me once more with fury in his eyes. My irritation reached an all-time high, prompting me to pull the pistol's trigger. At that range, it was damn near impossible to miss. The baton-wielding convict collapsed like a sack of bricks, and the other one took off running. I debated pulling the trigger on him as well, but held my fire and moved to investigate my kill. It was strange how little I cared for the fact that I'd killed a man. Perhaps it was due to his status as a murderer and criminal, or I'd end up feeling the remorse later. After confirming that he was well and truly dead, I stripped everything out of the man's pockets. The results were mostly standard, a spare magazine and a few loose cartridges of 9mm ammunition for the pistol. However, I also came across a small pouch of what appeared to be bottle caps. That tickled at my memory for some reason, but I was still too pumped with adrenaline to think clearly. I pocketed the caps and climbed into the camper, giving it a quick search as well. More ammunition was found there, including a few shotgun shells, and a bulletproof vest with the same NCRCF marking as the convicts' acquired uniforms. There was no lack of dynamite sticks either. I came out of the camper with at least six, and found two more lying on a dirty table nearby with an unopened bottle of water.

The more I investigated and searched the area, the more I discovered that this wasn't close to where I'd last been. There was a highway nearby, but it was cracked, torn, with the ruined wood of houses and rusted wrecks of cars all about. I'd traded a desert for a post-apocalyptic wasteland from the looks of things. Letting out a long, annoyed sigh, I began to head up the road with a pistol and knife held low, but ready.

It wasn't too long before I came upon a small shack with a rusted-out plane behind it. I could hear people talking out front and moved to investigate, keeping to the stealthy approach in case they were more escaped convicts. Sure enough, there they were, standing around like a bunch of idiots. Three total by my count, including the one who ran away before. Aww, how adorable, he was telling them about me! Not that it would save them.

"Came out of fucking nowhere, like a ghost or some shit! Took out O'Brady before he could even draw his gun! I only barely got away."

"So you ran your ass away like the big fucking coward you are," One of the others snorted, "Wouldn't surprise me if it was one of those NCR bastards. Maybe a Ranger."

These two were packing guns as well. One with a knockoff Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol like my looted piece, and the other with a bolt-action rifle that looked like it had seen better days. From the lack of camaraderie between these new enemies and the escapee, I wouldn't be able to use a human shield approach. There was no time to be merciful. If I didn't kill all three, there was a high likelihood one would get back up to try and kill me, just like last time.

"If he _was_ a Ranger, that means the NCR's trying to pick us off one by one. Someone should go back to the Correctional facility and report this to Eddie."

"Not right now, it's dark! He could be hiding anywhere!" The coward practically screamed, "Behind that rock, or that bush, or..."

I couldn't resist. I slipped up behind the coward and put my knife to his throat. I dropped into a cheesy French accent and said,

"Right behind you."

The world froze for a split second as the other two convicts just stared with wide eyes. I smirked viciously and tore my blade across the coward's throat, then slipped around his falling body and put two bullets through the chest of the convict with the pistol. The rifleman was having a bit of trouble getting his weapon unslung from across his back. It would seem he'd tightened the strap a little too tightly. I pulled the trigger one last time and watched him fall. I made short work of scavenging their supplies, retrieving more 9mm bullets and two magazines, the loaded pistol itself, as well as the rifle and extra magazines for it as well. There were also more caps to be had, and I was fast running out of space to carry things. It wouldn't do to leave the shack unexplored though, especially if there was another 'Powder Ganger' in there.

I kicked open the door and stormed in, pistol aimed at chest level and knife at the ready, but there was nobody there, the only light coming from a single flickering bulb on the ceiling. Along one side of the room was a few stacks of tires and empty oil drums. The back wall sported a row of four lockers. Only one of those seemed to be in any decent condition. In the middle of the shack was a desk with a Ham Radio and some sort of self-contained computer terminal on it. The terminal refused to power on when I tried it, and I got nothing but static from the radio. It would have been nice to get some information from someone that _wasn't_ trying to kill me.

I also found another bottle cap on the desk, this one with a bright blue star on it. Figuring it was something special, I made sure to keep it separated from the others. The key to the lockers was hiding under the cap, and I quickly put it to use. For my scavenging, I came out a box of 9mm ammunition richer, found a few more caps, some shotgun shells, and a single-barrel break-action shotgun. It was in pretty good shape as far as I could tell. Like most of the weaponry I'd found, it could use a good cleaning, but they'd all do their jobs if I needed to use them. Since the shotgun lacked any sort of strap, I was stuck using it as my primary weapon instead of my pistol. I wasn't confident in my skill with a shotgun, and the limited ammunition capacity wasn't doing it any favors.

Shaking my head to clear it of those thoughts, I left the shack and stopped dead in my tracks. A woman was there, inspecting the bodies of the Powder Gangers. She was wearing some sort of leather outfit, and had a bolt-action rifle in her hands like the one I had slung over my shoulder. I was caught off guard as a _beautiful_ husky padded up out of the darkness and sat on her haunches at the woman's heel. The dog's bright blue eyes watched me closely, but she seemed more confused than wary.

"Heard the gunshots all the way up in Goodsprings," The woman said, finally straightening up and looking at me. She glanced down at her dog and quirked an eyebrow, then looked back at me. "Cheyenne seems to like you, so I guess you can't be all that bad."

"Wouldn't have killed them if I could avoid it, but they likely wouldn't have extended the same courtesy," I said. She smiled and gave an amused snort.

"You don't have to justify it to me. The Powder Gangers have been nothing but trouble since they showed up. We don't get nearly as many merchants wandering this way because of them."

"That's gotta suck," I muttered, "Look, I'd love to keep up this chat, but it'd probably be better to continue it in friendlier territory."

The woman nodded and slung her rifle over her back.

"Yeah, you've got a point there. Goodsprings is just up the road a ways," She began walking, and Cheyenne followed obediently with a wagging tail. "I'm Sunny Smiles, by the way."

I considered for a moment whether to use my 'real' name or not. In the end, I decided to use the alias I'd chosen for myself long ago, back when life was still simple, and a computer screen filled most of my days.

"Call me Rain. Rain Nero," I introduced myself, jogging a few steps to catch up.

* * *

Walking into Goodsprings for the first time gave an odd sense of nostalgia, and an ache in my heart that I couldn't begin to explain. Sunny's destination, and mine by extension, was the Prospector Saloon, which sported a bright neon sign announcing its name to the world. A trio of motorcycles in drab green rested out front, but they weren't of any model I recognized. The saloon's door opened up and out stepped an wizened old man in a straw hat and black overalls, a well-worn revolver on his hip. His white beard gave him a friendly and disarming appearance, much like Santa Claus.

"Surprised you're still up, Pete," Sunny said, "Found out what was making the racket and brought him home."

"Was just about to gather up a posse to make sure you were alright," Pete spoke in a gruff voice and country accent, "What sort of trouble was he in? Geckos?"

"Powder Gangers," Sunny corrected, "They set up at the old sky diving place, and a bit further south, best I can tell."

"Bah, nothin' good can come of them being around," Pete grumbled, lowering himself into one of the chairs on the saloon's front porch. "Those Great Khan fellers weren't much better. At least they headed back north already."

My tired mind wasn't picking up on names and information nearly as well as it needed to. I was missing something big, _important_ about this whole thing. Cheyenne gave a small whine and nudged my leg, drawing the attention of Sunny and Pete.

"Kid seems almost dead on his feet. Get him inside and settled down. We'll talk more later," Pete chuckled. After a nod of agreement, Sunny led me into the saloon. Only the bartender was around, polishing a few glasses and fiddling with a busted radio. I took the chance to get a look around. Half of the saloon's main space consisted of the bar, with a few booths set up, and a recreation area that had a pool table and jukebox merrily playing the type of music I'd expect from the 50's or early 60's. The two sections were divided by a central wall.

"Just drop your gear over at one of the tables. Cheyenne'll make sure nobody touches it," Sunny said, waving me off towards the recreational side. While I moved to one of the cheap metal tables with Cheyenne in tow, Sunny went to have a talk with the bartender. Slowly but surely, I began to unload all of my acquired weaponry and ammunition. The total magazine count for the pistols came out to six, each carrying thirteen rounds, save for the one loaded into my first pistol. I'd take care of replacing the rounds after I'd rested. I could barely keep my eyes open. I slipped the used magazine back into my pistol and flipped the safety on, then shoved it into my pocket. The residents of Goodsprings I'd met so far were decent folk, but recent events made me just a bit wary of everyone and everything. I settled into one of the chairs to wait for Sunny to finish talking.

I wasn't sure how long I flickered in and out of consciousness. When I finally woke, for a brief, split second, I could believe that the mattress under my back was my own. I could trick myself into believing I was still back in Ohio. Chasing the robed figure across the country never happened, neither did findng myself in some twisted post-apocalyptic Earth. I could make myself believe that I hadn't murdered four men so easily.

The illusion was shattered when I heard a knock at the door.

"Rain, you up yet?" Sunny's voice was muffled by the wood between us, but it was definitely hers. A bark followed soon after and showed that Cheyenne was tagging along as well.

"Just woke up, give me a bit," I called back. It didn't take long for me to get out of bed, and I found that I'd been left in my clothes. My pistol was resting on top of a nearby bookshelf, next to a repair kit and a battered globe. The entire shack was a bit of a mess, with ruined books and scrap metal filling its shelves and surfaces. There were also a few battered metal ammunition boxes, but since the shack didn't belong to me, I left them alone. I brushed off my T-shirt and jeans as best I could, trying to make myself somewhat presentable. A quick, rough finger-combing of my hair would have to do for that aspect, and I'd have to ask around for a razor to try and get the excess stubble off of my face. When I finally opened the door after slipping the Hi-Power into my pocket, I found Sunny impatiently waiting with Cheyenne, and... a robot? I just blinked at the boxy machine, balanced on a single tire and sporting a monitor on its front that displayed the stylized image of a cowboy's head.

"You just sort of passed out in the saloon. I was fine to just let you stay there, but Trudy decided to lock up early on account of recent events. Victor here was kind enough to let you sleep in his shack," Sunny explained.

"Aww, it was nothing. Just helping a stranger in need," The robot chuckled, his synthesized voice fitting the 'cowboy' aesthetic. "Shame I couldn't get to that Courier in time, though..."

"I take it something happened after I conked out?" I asked, feeling another tickle in the back of my mind at the mention of a 'Courier'.

"Those Great Khans who passed through yesterday with some guy in a checkered suit and a fancy gun decided to off a Courier from the Mojave Express. It was a headshot at point blank range, no way for her to have survived," Sunny let out a depressed sigh. Cheyenne whined in sympathy, and Victor just shifted on his tire in what seemed like nervousness. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I had to suppress the rage I was feeling at that injustice, or it'd all burst out on someone who didn't deserve it. My gaze swept over the town, looking for some distraction to break the awkward silence following my calming exercise. My eyes found an African-American man in one of the NCRCF uniforms and ballistic vests, with a pair of guys following behind in the more standard uniforms. All three were packing firearms. The two in normal uniforms had bolt-action rifles like the one I'd looted, and the leader had a revolver much like Pete's, only in worse condition.

"You didn't leave the vest I looted at the Saloon, right?" I asked Sunny, checking over my pistol to make sure it hadn't been tampered with during my move from the Saloon the night before. Sunny followed my gaze, then cursed loudly. That was all the answer I needed to hear. I slid the magazine back into my Hi-Power and pulled its trigger once to send the slide forward.

"They're going to make the connection between Goodsprings and the dead Powder Gangers," I said, leading the way to the Prospector Saloon at a quick pace.

"Joe Cobb's already got enough reason to try and take over the town since Ringo showed up," Sunny replied, unslinging her rifle and checking its magazine as well. "As much as I'm not for killing folks, Cobb needs to be stopped before he can do any real damage."

Pete, still in the same chair I'd last seen him in, gave a grim smile and a nod as we passed him to enter the Saloon. The Powder Gangers all had their weapons out, and were threatening the bartender, a middle-aged woman who looked distinctly unamused.

"If you don't give Ringo up, I'm gonna get my boys and burn this town to the ground," Joe Cobb threatened, gesturing with his revolver. Oh, good, they hadn't found the vest yet, or at least hadn't noticed it. The other Powder Gangers didn't seem to notice my entrance, so I quickly looked back at Sunny and put a finger to my lips, then slipped over to the table where my gear had been left, untouched as promised. I grabbed my trusty rusty kitchen knife, two of the spare magazines for my Hi-Power, and formed a quick plan of attack. Sunny just looked at me and quirked an eyebrow, to which I responded with a feral grin and signaled the second rifleman, then mimed a choke-hold. Sunny nodded, and I counted down from three on my fingers. Once only a closed fist remained, Ms. Smiles and I sprang into action. Sunny knocked the rifle out of her target's hands with a smack from the butt of her own, then took the man in a headlock and aimed the rifle over his shoulder.

I moved in behind my target, slipped my knife arm under his armpit and placed the blade on the man's neck, and lined up a shot at Cobb. As an afterthought, I growled to my prisoner,

"_Drop it!"_

One more rifle clattered to the floor, and the Powder Ganger raised his hands in surrender.

"Just who the fuck are you supposed to be?" Cobb asked, taking a step back.

"Who I am isn't important here," I replied, my voice coming out as a ferocious growl, "Who _you_ are is."

"Boss, I think this is the one who killed our guys at the sky diving joint!" Sunny's victim wheezed. Cobb's mouth opened, shut, then he turned and ran out a back exit that I didn't even know about. My parting shot missed him by less than an inch, leaving a hole in the wall.

"Damn, that's what I was trying to avoid," I grumbled, looking to Sunny, "Let's take these bastards outside."

We dragged our prisoners out of the Saloon, ignoring their pleading and begging.

"So, how are we doing this?" Sunny asked, "Can't let them go, or they'll just run back to Cobb."

"I'm not much for executing prisoners either," I admitted, then called to Pete, "Do you mind finding some duct tape or rope?"

"Not at all, kid," Pete chuckled, and vanished into the small store next to the saloon.

"May as well knock them out for now," I added to Sunny, then pistol-whipped the back of my captive's head. He dropped without problem, and Sunny soon had her own prisoner in dreamland. We both then began the process of patting down the men, coming away with more caps, dynamite, and ammunition for the type of rifle Sunny used. Once that was taken care of, I walked over to a chair on the Saloon's front porch and nearly collapsed into it. Two days and I'd been in more high-stress situations than in the last two years. If I ever caught up to that robed guy, I'd probably put every last bullet I had into him. Then again, it was my own fault for tracking him across the country on a whim.

"You alright?" Sunny asked, taking a seat next to me.

"To be honest, I've been better," I sighed, relaxing as much as I could in the chair, "If things keep going as they have, I'm going to crack."

"Just hang in there Rain. Most days, all we have to deal with is the occasional Gecko wandering near town," Sunny smiled and stood up as the sound of footsteps came from inside the saloon. The bartender soon stepped out, awkwardly balancing all of the gear I'd left, and the rifles we'd disarmed from our prisoners.

"Hope you know what you're getting into, kid," She said, setting the assorted guns and ammunition at my feet, then stepping back.

"Hey, Trudy, think you could help round up some of the settlers? We could use the help," Sunny picked up one of the rifles and began checking it over.

"Sorry, but I'm planning on sitting this one out," The bartender, now identified as Trudy, replied, "I'll be cheering you on, though."

"If you don't want to fight, I'll respect your choice," I told her, picking up one of the rifles for inspection as well. There was plenty of work to do, and not much time to do it in.

* * *

I knocked on the door to the Goodsprings gas station, located on the very western edge of town, and waited. Sunny was taking care of persuading Chet, the general store owner, to supply the townsfolk with some basic leather armor. I, on the other hand, was supposed to be persuading Ringo and Doc Mitchell to aid in the town's defense. From what little information I'd obtained, Ringo's caravan had been taken out by the Powder Gangers. If nothing else, I could appeal to a desire for revenge.

Time passed, and I heard no movement inside the gas station. At last, I tried the door handle. It swung open easily, and I found myself staring down the barrel of another 9mm Hi-Power.

"That's close enough," Ringo said, his grip on the pistol shaking a bit, "Who are you, and what do you want with me?"

The man was rather scrawny, clad in a plaid shirt and blue overalls that had seen a fair bit of road from the amount of dust on them.

"Name's Rain. Managed to piss off the Powder Gangers, and the town's going to settle the question of Joe Cobb once and for all," I replied easily, forcing my hand away from my pistol. Ringo ran a hand through his short brown hair and sighed, holstering his weapon after a tense moment.

"How many of the other townsfolk are in on it?" Ringo asked, leaning against the wall.

"Sunny Smiles at the least. She's off trying to get Pete to loan us some dynamite, and Chet to part with a few sets of armor. If you're in, then all that's left is to get some medical supplies from Doc Mitchell," I answered.

"Rain!" Sunny called from outside of the gas station. I gave Ringo one parting look and stepped out of the door. Sunny was panting, as though she'd ran all the way across the town at full tilt. Cheyenne was panting at her heels.

"They're here?" I preempted Sunny. A nod from her, which lead to a curse from me. Ringo stepped out behind me, still in the process of shoving extra magazines in his pockets. I looked out at the town, and noted that a few snipers had been set up on top of the store and saloon. More were hiding behind a large shipping crate, and in the alley between the store and saloon. I looked down for a moment, and found myself chuckling in spite of the danger.

"Are you sure he's not just insane?" Ringo asked, edging away from me.

"You have to be a little crazy to survive in the Wasteland," Sunny answered with a wild grin.

"Sorry. It's just high noon, and the setting is just _too_ perfect," I explained myself. Gunshots soon rang out from the center of town, and were met by return fire from the road leading back to Jean Sky Diving. The time in between running from the gas station and joining the fight seemed to pass in a blink. Sunny and I were both crouched behind the rusted wreck of a pickup truck, taking every clear shot at the Powder Gangers we could get. There were only about eight of them total, which wouldn't have been a problem even if we had half their number. Someone had clearly forgotten to give most of the Powder Gangers any form of proper weaponry, meaning most were running around with pool cues or cleavers. The only real issue came when they started throwing dynamite. One stick was enough to scatter our main forces, and a few of those brave souls didn't get back up.

When another stick of dynamite blew and shattered the windows of the Prospector Saloon, Trudy stormed out, shotgun in hand, and began unleashing her own brand of hell. Ringo wasn't doing poorly for himself either, but he was a merchant, not a soldier. Then again, I wasn't much of a soldier either. Pete was holding his own with both dynamite and revolver, working the hammer like a pro. Cheyenne was barking and growling, barely holding back her instincts to go and rip out the throats of anything that would threaten her master.

As quickly as the fight began, it ended. Joe Cobb was the only Powder Ganger left, fumbling with a strange device. I lined up my sights and shot it out of his hands, then broke cover and began walking towards him. Cobb saw me coming and fumbled for his revolver, the fear of god and of _me_ in his eyes. Apparently I'd left a bit of a lasting impression on the man. By the time I'd gotten within arm's reach, Cobb was just barely getting the hammer cocked, only to find that his gun was empty. He dropped it and tried a haymaker. With ease, I sidestepped, grabbed him by the wrist and head, turned, and slammed him into the dirt. Cobb just laid there after that, trying to get his breath back.

"Holy hell," A voice spoke up, just barely audible over the blowing desert wind. I looked up from Cobb and saw a man further down the road. He was dressed in what I could only guess was supposed to be a military uniform, colored a dusty brown to blend in with the desert. He wore a chestplate branded with a golden two-headed bear. His rifle was reminiscent of the classic AR15 assault rifle, and a holster at his side bore a Browning Hi-Power. He stepped up and looked down at Cobb, then back up to me.

"I'm Private McMahon from the New California Republic Army, 5th Battalion, 1st Company. We caught wind that some of the escaped convicts were going to attack the town, but it seems you've managed to take care of that yourselves," The soldier introduced himself. "If there are any more survivors, we'll take them back into NCR custody."

"Fuck that," Joe Cobb spat, "I'd rather die than go rot in a cell again."

"Oh Joe, you poor, poor bastard. Do you really think I'd just off you so quickly? No. You're going to live for a long, _long_ time. Whether that time is spent as a cripple or not is entirely up to how much you cooperate," I had to suppress a shudder at the ice in my own voice. The ring had affected my mental balance as well as my physical, and the fact that I didn't know the full depth of the changes frightened me. Disgusted with myself, I turned away from the man and strode into the saloon. I'd never been one for alcohol before, but I was beginning to feel a mighty need for a stiff drink. I settled into a chair at the table that carried what remained of my looted supplies that hadn't gone to defending the town. Checking over it all was a calming exercise, a way to pacify the beast that had been rampaging in me since I'd arrived in the wasteland.

My self-loathing was only distracted by Cheyenne whining softly and resting her head on my leg.

"Why are you getting so attached, girl?" I asked, scratching her behind the ears, "You know by now I can't stick around."

"What makes you think that?" Sunny's voice cut in. I looked up and saw her walk into the saloon, followed by most of the townsfolk seeming eager for a victory drink.

"I've got someone that I need to find. Someone who I need to get some answers from," I replied, "Plus, as you've probably seen, I'm not exactly the best company to keep."

"Cheyenne disagrees, and that's good enough for me. Most folks she'll be downright hostile to until I say otherwise. Never had to do that with you," Sunny replied, taking a seat at the table. "So, who is it you're looking for?"

"Some tall, hunched guy in a hooded robe," I said, reloading the last magazine for my 9mm, "Followed him through some weird stone ring, and the next thing I knew I was waking up outside of a Powder Ganger camp."

"Yikes. Well, we definitely haven't had anyone like that through town. Primm would probably be the best place to check if you're dead-set on leaving. It's just a few hours walk south of here if you follow the road."

I nodded, committing the information to memory, and rose from my chair. Sunny stood as well, a small frown still on her face.

"When are you planning to leave?" She asked.

"Tomorrow, probably. I'm going to do some trading with Chet and talk to Doc, then probably crash at Victor's again for the night," I answered. My progress out the door was stopped by Ringo, who calmly placed a jingling bag in my hand. Confused, I opened it and found more of the bottle caps I'd looted off of the Powder Gangers. It rapidly clicked that they counted as money in the Wasteland. I'd have to count my caps when time allowed.

"I know it's not much, but because of you, I don't need to hide out anymore. Technically they're Crimson Caravan funds, but I think they'll understand once I explain things," He had a genuine grin on his face. I just shook my head and tried to return them, but he was having none of it. "Rain, I owe you a lot more than that. Whether you like to admit it or not, your presence made the settlers take action."

"Then if we ever meet again, you can pay me back. But for now, it'd ease my conscience if you kept the money, and put it to hiring some protection for your trip back home," I stated, pressing the bag of caps back into his grasp successfully.

"I'll hold you to that," Ringo said, "Just look me up with the Crimson Caravan in New Vegas if you're ever in the area."

As I walked through Goodsprings, the townsfolk greeted me with cheer. The aftermath of the battle had been cleaned up at record speed, save for a few loose splinters from the destroyed crates. I debated stopping at Chet's store, but decided against it, since I didn't want to lug all of my loot from the saloon just yet. With that in mind, I changed my course to the white house at the top of the hill, smirking at the picket fence out front. It was the type of house typically seen in a propaganda ad about the 'American Dream'. Someone clearing their throat behind me pulled my attention from the scenery, and I turned around to see Private McMahon standing there, eyeing me critically.

"Doubt you want to hear it from me, but you did a good job here today. The defense was well organized, and there were no critical injuries to any of the townsfolk," The Private said, "If you're ever looking for some solid work, the NCR could use someone with your talent."

"I'll keep that in mind," I replied with a fake smile. When I turned to enter Doc Mitchell's home, though, McMahon spoke one more time.

"There's actually something we could use your help on, if you're planning on heading south anyways."

That caught my attention. I turned back to the Private and gestured for him to continue.

"Officially, Primm is off limits right now. The town was taken over by convicts from the NCR Correctional Facility last night. Since Primm isn't technically in NCR's jurisdiction, we can't do anything about it."

"So you want me to clear them out for you?" I asked, trying _not_ to think of all the possible ways that could go wrong. Everything was telling me to accept the mission, to help the town. The fact remained that I was pretty much bluffing my way through most combat situations thus far. It was amazing that I hadn't taken a bullet between the eyes yet.

"If you think you can manage it," McMahon confirmed. I took a long breath and prayed that whatever luck I had would last.

"Alright. I'll take the job. Are you headed back that way tonight?"

"I was just about to leave, actually," The Private admitted, "I tell you, this is some of the best news I've had in the last few days. When can we expect you?"

"Midday tomorrow at the latest."

Private McMahon gave one final nod, said his farewells, and departed. I took a few calming breaths, trying to calm the swirl of chaotic thoughts running through my head. What the hell had I just agreed to?! I'd just gone through a crisis sanity, and then I agreed to a job that would force me to unleash the monster in me again! The wasteland had changed me too much already, and not for the better. I'd already started killing, breaking one of my major moral tenets in the process. Where would it end? Just how far would I fall before I was just as bad as the men I killed?!

* * *

Once I'd gotten my emotions back under control, I finally got around to knocking on Doc Mitchell's door. It was soon opened by a bald old man with a friendly look about him. Upon seeing me, he gave a big smile and waved me in.

"Come on in, son. I've been meaning to talk to you since you got into town," He said, leading the way to his living room. Like most buildings I'd been in, the house was in rather poor condition. The only exceptions to this rule seemed to be his white couch and red armchair. I took a seat on the couch and nearly melted into the soft cushion. The chairs at the Prospector Saloon weren't meant for comfort, and the bed in Victor's shack wasn't all that great either. But that couch... that couch was a single work of expertly crafted comfort after the end of the world as I knew it. Doc just grinned and chuckled at my reaction to the couch and disappeared down a second hallway connected to the living room. When he returned, Doc had a pair of bottles in hand. He passed me one and took a seat in the armchair. I noticed immediately that the bottle cap looked the same as some of the ones I'd looted off the Powder Gangers. It figured they had to come from somewhere, but I never expected them to be on a drink still in production.

"I get these from the vending machine out by the gas station," Doc explained, "Someone keeps refilling the machine when nobody's watching."

I remembered seeing the 'Sunset Sarsaparilla' machine when I was first going to see Ringo, but I figured it had already been looted.

"Right, so, what did you want to see me about?" I asked, popping the cap off the drink and setting it on a conveniently placed side table. On my first taste I could safely say that Sunset Sarsaparilla did not match up to any modern soft drinks in terms of flavor. It was likely the best I would get, unless if someone decided to shove a Mountain Dew vending machine through the Ring.

"Ah, straight to business. I can respect that," Doc gave a small nod and took a swig of his drink. "Long story short, I wanted to see how you've been holding up. From what I've heard, you've been through a lot since you got here. That can put a strain on the mind. Now, mind you, I'm not a psychologist, but I've picked a few things up in all my years of doctorin'."

There it was, my chance to cut loose and vent all I'd been feeling to someone else. Before I did, there were things I had to be sure of.

"Nothing I say will leave this room?" I asked.

"If you're not a danger to yourself or other law-abiding folk, it won't leave my lips," Mitchell promised.

"Well, Doc, I'm seriously out of my depth. A month ago, if someone told me I'd be in a post-apocalyptic wasteland one day, I'd call the men in the white coats to put them in an insane asylum. A week ago, it was 2014 AD for me, America was still alive and kicking, and the only wars being fought were overseas. The most I expected to be doing with my life was sitting in front of a computer all day typing code for some company or other," I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath for the next part. "Then some weird guy in a robe shows up outside of my home, and lures me across the country to some weird stone ring out in the desert. That's where things start to go a bit nuts. He just walked through the ring, vanished, and being the massive idiot I am, I followed him. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in the middle of the night outside of a Powder Ganger camp with nothing but the clothes on my back, with my deformed heart and lungs somehow cured and years of physical neglect to my body negated. Possibly the most annoying part about all of this is that going through that ring did a number on my mind too. I was never this prone to violence before, and I never see that I'm even breaking my own character until after the fact."

"That's... quite the story," Mitchell admitted, taking another sip of his drink. "Not the strangest I've heard, but it definitely ranks up there. Don't take that the wrong way, though. You sound genuine enough for me."

Doc had provided the perfect bait for my curiosity. I found myself unable to resist asking about the strangest he'd heard.

"So, if a magical time-travel ring isn't the strangest thing you've heard about, what is?"

Doc Mitchell burst into laughter and gave me a giant grin as he told the tale.

"A year or two ago, back when I was working as a travelling doctor fresh out of Vault 21, my wife and I came on a man lying in the middle of the way, covered in deep cuts. He was hanging on to life by a thread, but we managed to get him stable. Once he'd recovered enough to talk, I got the story from him. Apparently he'd been out on a bender with some friends of his, they took some chems and ended up on a bad trip. When he woke up, he was in bed with a dead bighorner and a _very_ satisfied Mother Deathclaw. Apparently she didn't like it all that much when he tried to sneak out the window."

At the word 'deathclaw' my mind flashed with the image of a demonic creature with long horns, razor-sharp claws, and teeth made for crushing bone. Doc wasn't quite finished though.

"Not long ago I got a message from him through the Mojave Express. Apparently he'd found the same deathclaw, and they're now 'married' and living together somewhere out east by Colorado. Got the picture somewhere around here."

I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn't quite find any words to say to that. I closed my mouth and tried again.

"Well, that's going to make for one hell of a family reunion."

Doc and I shared a round of laughter after that, and for a brief moment, my life didn't seem that bad by comparison. When the laughter faded, we were left in a comfortable silence. My list of people to visit if I ever returned to Goodsprings had grown by one, just after Sunny Smiles and Easy Pete.

"So..." I said as a means of restarting the conversation, "I took a small job for the NCR. Nothing classified, but under the table since it's out of their area of influence."

"Hope you know what you're getting into, son," Doc said, frowning for a brief moment.

"I hope I do too. I'm not confident about it, but there are good folks who need my help, and I'll be damned if I don't do _something_ about it."

"And that's a quality that seems to be diminishing in this day and age," Doc chuckled, "Too many folks are just so focused on their own survival, they don't have time for anyone else. Goodsprings is thankfully different in that regard. Good folk, helpful folk, but you've seen what happens when something gets them riled up. Hold on a sec, I want to give you something."

He quickly vanished into a back room, leaving me somewhat confused. I took another sip of my Sunset Sarsaparilla and internally grumbled at the odd taste again. When Doc returned, he was carrying what looked to be a wrist-mounted computer of some kind, with a durable outer shell colored a plain gray and a number of buttons, a dial, and some sort of scrolling wheel.

"This is my old Pip-Boy 3000. Never seemed to have much use for it once I left the Vault. It's got all sorts of features you might find handy," He passed it into my hands, and I just stared down at the device for a moment, trying to comprehend why he would just give me such an obviously expensive gift.

"Doc, I can't accept this... it's -" I was cut off by a downright fatherly smile from the old man.

"Rain, you've done right by this town. Giving you a Pip-Boy that's just been collecting dust is the least anyone can do to repay you for helping out," He explained. Seeing there was no point in arguing, I fitted the opened armband over my left forearm and closed it. The device let out a little beep and powered on, showing a screen with a cartoony man in a jumpsuit smiling and giving a thumbs up. My only problem with it was that the interface was amber colored, which didn't make for the easiest read. The next few minutes after that were spent getting a rundown on how to use the Pip-Boy, including changing the interface color. The vitals tracking used an odd system called 'S.P.E.C.I.A.L.' to describe the users basic capabilities, which was shared with a machine in Doc's medical room called the 'Vit-o-Matic Vigor Tester'. It honestly felt like something you'd find in an Role Playing game, similar to the six attributes in Dungeons and Dragons. According to Doc, I had slightly above average scores all around, save for my strength, which ranked only a 4 on the 1-10 scale. I wasn't particularly surprised at that. I'd been living with the equivalent of a strength score of 1 for years.

When I finally left Doc Mitchell's, I was in a good mood and had a basic medical kit to cover most common injuries. He tried to sell me some Stimpaks, which accelerated a user's healing rate exponentially, but I was a bit wary of having to inject myself with needles. It was late afternoon when I returned to the Prospector Saloon, only to find that Sunny had left to take care of a small problem with some Geckos in the wilderness outside of town. She had Cheyenne with her, so I figured Sunny wouldn't need my help. Trudy gave me a smile as I took a seat at her bar for the first time, then frowned as a burst of static came from the radio sitting on the shelf behind her.

"I swear, it's been on the fritz since that Great Khan knocked it over," She muttered, setting it on the bar in front of her. The radio unit was self-contained, made by a company called 'Radiation King' if the label on the front was to be believed.

"Probably knocked something loose," I replied, "If you've got a screwdriver handy, I should be able fix it for you, or at least figure out what's wrong with it."

"You're asking a bartender if she's got a screwdriver," Trudy grinned at me, and I rolled my eyes at the obvious joke I'd missed. In a minute or so, I had the casing open, and noticed what looked like three AA batteries fitted together with some sort of connecting sleeve. I grounded myself on the metal casing to make sure I didn't fry the components of the radio with static, then removed the batteries, which I figured were the power source. From there, it was a quick and easy round of checking and tightening connections. A few minutes later, I had the case closed back up and flipped the right dial to the 'on' position. I felt a moment of triumph as the light in the radio's front came on and a man's voice began speaking.

"_Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. This is Mr. New Vegas. Thank you very very much for listening._ _Whoops, better put on my newsman fedora here. Goodsprings has fended off a mob of escaped convicts after organizing an impromptu militia. This according to an old man, armed to the teeth with dynamite. You know, I think all news, whether it's good or bad, brings us all closer together. Don't you? We've got another classic coming up for you, it's Marty Robins with 'Big Iron'."_

"Man, I must have missed the reporter while I was up at Doc's," I chuckled, "Anyways, it should be good to go. You might want to consider recharging the batteries when you have the time, but other than that, no more falls and it'll survive for a good few years."

"Thanks for looking at it for me. I don't know the usual rate for a repairman, but I figure fifty caps ought to cover it," Trudy set a small bag with the caps in front of me. I was quickly learning that people got rather generous when you help them with their problems, so I didn't make a fuss about the caps that time. Since I hadn't eaten yet, I decided to see what Trudy had in the way of food, and was soon enjoying my first Gecko Steak. The trace amounts of radiation actually made it taste _better_.

Once I'd finished my meal, I left a small tip for Trudy and went over to the recreational side. Someone had been over there, but from what I could tell, they hadn't taken anything. Quite the opposite in fact. All of the loaned guns and spare ammunition had been returned, and I even saw a new addition in the form of the revolver Joe Cobb was carrying. I felt a pang of sorrow at the condiiton the old Single Action Army was in. Revolvers were good, sturdy weapons, and would never jam on you like an automatic, but they required love and care. Cobb had given his piece neither, and it showed in the wear and tear visible on the metal. Before I'd even consider taking any of this to Chet, I needed to make sure everything was in the best condition I could get it. Learning to disassemble and reassemble these common gun types would be useful for the future, too.

* * *

Afternoon had long since passed into evening when I stepped into the Goodsprings General Store. Chet was behind the main counter, looking rather bored. At my entry, however, he perked up and gave me a smile.

"So, you're the guy I've been hearing about. Sunny told me you'd be dropping by," He said, "I'm Chet, and this is my store. I've got a bit of everything lying around somewhere, so let me know if you see anything that catches your interest. If you're looking to sell off some stuff, just bring it up and I'll take a look."

Without further ado, I carried my makeshift bundle of weapons and set them on the counter. Chet raised an eyebrow, but nonetheless began making his own inspection.

"I spent the last few hours cleaning up each and every one of those, it's why I'm so late."

Chet nodded in understanding, fiddling with the bolt on one of the rifles. He tested the magazine release and let out a small whistle.

"You got these from the Powder Gangers, right?" He asked, setting that rifle aside and looking picking up the second of the four rifles I was selling. I'd decided to keep one just in case I needed a weapon with a longer reach.

"Every last piece," I confirmed.

"Well, I have to say, you did a damn fine round of work on these Varmint Rifles. Just the fact that they're cleaned up gives a higher price. I'll give you fifty caps for each rifle and a spare magazine. You can keep the actual ammunition if you like."

I nodded and Chet set the rifles aside, picking up the shotgun next. He looked it over, then whistled appreciatively.

"Good job on this one. I can give you seventy caps for it," I agreed and he set it aside with the rifles. The rest of the transaction went by smoothly. I didn't get too many caps for the spare knife or other improvised melee weapons. The most caps came from the collapsible baton and baseball bat at 45 and a whopping hundred, respectively. Apparently good baseball bats were a commodity of sorts, and the one I'd picked up was in better condition than most Chet saw run through his store. In the end, I received a grand total of 558 caps from Chet, which was far, _far_ too many to just carry around. Heck, even the hundred or so I had was already too much.

"I really hope you don't have anything else to sell, that's pretty much all of the caps I had on me," Chet scratched his head, looking apologetic.

"Well, if you want a chance to get a fair bit of it back, I _do_ need some gear for an infiltration mission. I need suppressors for my rifle and pistol, if you have any in stock. A scope would be nice as well."

The salesman grinned and disappeared into his back room in a flash, then came back out carrying two black metal cases with 'Gun Runners Special parts' written on the top in white paint.

"I've been trying to get Sunny to buy these for a year or so now, but she insists that her rifle's fine how it is. If you're looking for a silencer for the 9mm, I don't have any in stock, but I do have a silenced .22 pistols. If you take the same care in cleaning it up that you did with the rifles, it won't let you down. I'll even throw in two extra magazines fully loaded."

"I'd like to see what I'm buying first, of course," I said. Chet pushed the cases in my direction, and began hunting around his store for the .22 pistol. I flipped the latches on the first case and opened it, then shifted aside the instruction manual for installing the modification. Where everything else in the wasteland seemed in poor condition, the scope looked like it had just come from the factory, its black metal not showing the slightest wear or tear. The suppressor was next, and I was just as impressed. The 'Varmint Rifle' thankfully came with a threaded barrel already installed, with a nearly unnoticeable cap at the end to protect the threading.

"I'm definitely buying these," I told Chet, who was in the middle of rifling through a metal cabinet.

"Two hundred caps for both," The merchant replied, then let out a small cry of victory and came back to the counter. When he set the pistol on the table, a very strange sound escaped me. It was not a manly sound, but one of pure delight. If I were to describe the sound I made, it would be something akin to '_Squee!'_ The pistol I was looking at was a Ruger Mk III with an integrated silencer. It needed cleaning up, like Chet said, but a quick examination showed that everything was in working order.

"Sixty caps for the lot," Chet cut into my admiration. As I began counting out the caps, he loaded up the magazines for me. It was then that I ran into a small problem with my logic. I still had no real means of carrying all of the ammunition and weapons I was acquiring. The NCRCF Ballistics vest was without any sort of pockets and a bit bulky. My medical bag was too small to carry much more than what was already in it. I looked around the store for something that would suit my needs. After a few minutes, I found something that seemed to fit the bill. It was a suit made of black leather, consisting of a jacket and set of really caught me about it was the number of pouches on the belt to hold additional magazines.

"Hey Chet," I commented, "How much would you take off the price of that leather armor if I traded in my vest?"

The salesman considered for a moment, then shrugged.

"The vest and seventy caps should cover it. The armor's never been touched, since everyone seems to prefer the extra shoulder guards and so on."

I went over to the armor and pulled it on over my T-shirt and jeans, then did a few basic stretches to make sure my mobility wasn't too hampered by the leather. Satisfied with my purchase, I made another sweep of the store's products, and was soon the owner of a trio of holsters for my handguns, a set of binoculars, a makeshift sheath for my knife, and an over-the-shoulder style backpack. My grand total for all of my expenses came out to 370 caps, leaving me with 306. With business concluded, I said my farewells to Chet and headed for Victor's shack. The robot himself was in some sort of standby mode outside, and made no move to stop me when I entered his shack.

The remainder of the time before nightfall was spent getting my weapons in peak shape for the upcoming mission. I installed the mod kits on my rifle, and cleaned up the Mk III to the best of my ability. Once that was taken care of, I took another look around on my Pip-Boy, checking the 'Data' tab to see if any files had been left that I needed to clear out. I found the Radio section, and the second I selected it, a number of stations popped into the auto-detection list. Some were named, such as 'Black Mountain Radio', 'Radio New Vegas', and 'Mojave Music Radio'. I also noticed a few more odd selections on the list, such as the 'Happy Trails Expedition Broadcast', and 'Sierra Madre Broadcast'. Even more just had a jumbled, glitchy mess of characters in place of a name. I steered clear of those for fear of somehow crashing the Pip-Boy's Operating System. After a moment, I began to feel restless.

Within moments, I had the belt from my leather armor buckled back on with my Hi-Power and knife in case something came up. Suitably armed, I left the shack once again and took in a deep breath of cool night air. My gaze swept upward to the full moon, and I felt a small pang of longing in my heart, a feeling I could never explain when I looked up at the great celestial body. With my hands in my pockets, I made a lap of the town. When I passed Trudy's Saloon for the second time, I paused and looked up the small dirt path north. Up the hill that way, I could make out a small water tower and a makeshift wooden fence.

My curiosity guided me, and I soon walked up the dusty trail. My breath caught as I came upon the Goodsprings Cemetery, and I barely noticed the small '_Ka-Ching!' _from my Pip-Boy when I approached it. A newer, fresher grave was in the north-eastern corner of the graveyard, with a wooden cross of scrap wood serving as its marker. I began to hear whispers on the wind as I walked further into the cemetery, the mutterings of restless spirits. I'd been able to hear them when I was younger, but the ability had faded to a dull 'ghost detection' sense during my teenage years. The return of that somewhat useless ability was another thing I could blame on the Ring.

With every step towards the newest grave, the whispers increased and a pressure built in the air. By the time I reached the mound of dirt, it felt like my body was being crushed in a trash compactor. It was hard to breathe, to think, to move. My vision kept flickering in and out, showing me the grave one moment, and an empty pit the next. The flashes increased in speed and intensity until it felt like I was being punched in the gut with each one. Then, as quickly as the activity came, it stopped. I could still feel the spirits in the cemetery, but they were calm, watching me, waiting for something. I heard the faint swish of leather on leather, and whirled to face the intruder, pistol and knife raised and ready.

There was nobody there. Releasing a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, I slid my knife into its sheath on the back of my belt and returned my Hi-Power to its holster at my right hip. Thoroughly creeped out, I gave one last look over my shoulder at the nameless Courier's resting place. The words sprang to my lips unbidden, but that didn't mean I wouldn't honor them.

"I'll come back and visit you the next time I'm in town. Just rest easy, Courier."

* * *

**Ending Notes**: This is, perhaps, the longest chapter I've ever written for any story. Still, I felt it was best to get the Goodsprings mini-storyline done in one straight shot. Now, I also have to explain a lot of things to keep people from raging at me.

The Ring that Rain traveled through actually exists in Fallout canon. If an equivalent exists on Earth, it hasn't been found yet. For the sake of this story, it does, and instead of just traveling through time as the Robed Figure suggested, it shifted our protagonist across the Multiverse into the Fallout section of things. The Ring has also been known to change the physical location of those who pass through it, explaining why Rain woke up outside of Powder Ganger Camp West. However, Rain's mere presence shifted the rules of probability, and poor Courier Six suffered the price for it.

So, with Courier Six dead, what does that mean for the overall storyline? Well, two of the DLC's are going to be changed in a major way. Lonesome Road is the obvious one, since Ulysses bears no grudge toward Rain. The other DLC that's getting changed is going to be a secret, unless if someone posts a review with the correct answer and why.

I'll go into details on why Rain seems to have an unfair advantage next time, but for now I'll leave you with his level 1 build for your viewing pleasure.

**S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: **(Strength: 4.)(Perception: 6.)(Endurance: 5.)(Charisma: 5.)(Intelligence: 7.)(Agility: 7.)(Luck: 6.)

**Tag Skills**: Guns, Sneak, Speech. Speech might seem like an odd choice, but in my personal playthrough, i lean towards guns rather than melee, and it doesn't take too much skill to use Rain's tactics with his knife.

**Traits:** Good Natured, Skilled(2x). Living in modern America, Rain hasn't had much reason to train with any sort of guns or explosives. Most of what he can do is thanks to untapped natural skill, which was then amplified by the ring.(You can actually double the boost from Skilled by reselecting it as a trait when the option to rebuild your character shows up. You'll get the extra points, but the -10% xp from Skilled doesn't stack with itself.)

I am also looking for some minor OC's, such as NCR soldiers, Caravan Guards and the like. If you want to see a character included, feel free to leave a mini-bio in the reviews section, and I'll take a look at them and decide whether or not to include them.

I also did a very basic spell checking run through Fanfiction's internal editor. Hopefully I didn't miss anything major.

_Until next time, everyone!_


	2. Entry 002

**Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Bethesda.**

**Review Replies:**

**AgoTheTiny:** You are my first reviewer for this story, and left a review that brought up my day. Here, have a cookie! Oh... wait... the screen's getting in the way. Never mind, I'll just eat the cookie for you. But yeah, I saw a distinct lack of successful Fallout SI's, and figured I may as well give my take on it. Hopefully it turns out well in the end.

**002**

* * *

"_This is Radio New Vegas, and I'm your host, Mr. New Vegas. And in case you're wondering if you've come to the right place, you have. It's just about time to get you some news from Primm, as merchants report a large presence of armed and unsavory figures patrolling the town. Residents are no where to be found. You know, I think all news, whether it's good or bad, brings us closer together. Don't you? Got some Dean Martin coming up talking about the greatest feeling in the world: love. Ain't That a Kick in the Head? It sure is, Dino, it sure is._"

By six in the morning, I was fully dressed and ready to head to Primm. I'd filled a few bottles I found with Goodsprings' pure, non-irradiated water. Food was another matter. I figured that so long as I managed my radiation intake, most of the food served in the wasteland wouldn't be a problem. I'd have to avoid any of the 'Pre-war' foods, since just going near some of them made the Geiger Counter on my Pip-Boy crackle like a cheery fire. Instead, I opted to get another Gecko steak for the road. So long as I didn't eat the delicious invention of post-war society too quickly, it would last me to Primm, and I wouldn't have to try and sneak around with my stomach growling.

Seeing Jean Sky Diving and the Powder Ganger camp in the daytime was a bit of a surreal experience. Someone had disposed of the Powder Gangers' bodies, but the dried splatters of blood were still visible on the ground. I heard the static from the Ham Radio inside the shack, which I remembered turning _off_ the last time I was in there. Switching into 'stealth mode', I pulled out my Hi-Power and knife, flipped off the safety, and sidled up to the door. Focusing my hearing, I could make out what sounded like someone muttering, providing all of the evidence I needed that there was someone in the small building. Feeling a bit tense, I opened the door a crack and peeked in. Sitting at the desk was an old African-American man with a neatly-trimmed white beard, dressed in an outfit with entirely _too many_ pockets sewn on. A worn baseball cap rested on his head, and a set of safety goggles hung around his neck. Not a Powder Ganger, in other words. I relaxed a bit and straightened up, hoping that I wouldn't need to use the weapons still in my hands.

"Hello? Is someone there?" The old man asked. _And... Detected,_ I thought, rolling my eyes.

"Yeah. Don't worry, I'm not one of the Powder Gangers," I answered, stepping into the shack. Upon seeing me, the man took his hand away from the bulky gray pistol at his hip. Since he wasn't dead-set on shooting me on sight, I figured it was safe to put my own weaponry away. Once my pistol and knife were in their holsters, the man visibly relaxed.

"So, any particular reason you popped in and damn near scared me into a heart attack?" The man asked, leaning back in the chair.

"Curiosity, mostly. I was here two nights ago and decided to check it over again during the daytime. I heard the radio's static and decided to see if any more Powder Gangers had taken up residence," I replied, "I'm Rain Nero."

"Malcolm Holmes. You were here the other night then? Did you happen to pick up a bottle cap with a blue star on it?"

"Yeah. Why? Is it yours?"

Malcolm shook his head and gave me a sad smile.

"There's an old wasteland legend about a fabulous treasure from before the war. Those caps with the blue star on them, the tale goes, are the key to that treasure. They're called Sunset Sarsaparilla Stars."

"Treasure, huh? If it's from a soda company, it's likely just a small cash prize and a T-shirt," I grumbled, remembering when I won a similar contest at a younger age. I felt so sore at being cheated that I'd started drinking the competitor's soda.

"Maybe, maybe not. The thing is, nobody's managed to get enough star caps for Festus to give up the treasure. Some people will do anything to get their hands on the caps though, so keep a gun handy if you start collecting them."

"Yeah, no way in hell am I getting involved with that," I muttered, pulling out my single blue star and placing it on the shack table. Malcolm made no move to take it, instead nodding in understanding.

"I stopped collecting them years ago. Nowadays I just make sure people know what they're getting into when they pick up one of the stars," He explained, getting up out of his chair and stretching. "Maybe I should start up one of those broadcasts like the Happy Trails Expedition did, warn people about the stars that way."

"Turn it into a radio station, it'll get more popularity that way," I replied, "And anyone with a Pip-Boy will pick up the signal automatically. It'll spread by word of mouth from there."

Malcolm's jaw dropped open, then he just grinned broadly at me.

"That's _brilliant_! Get a little more variety out here in the Mojave. It'll take a bit of work to get the station set up, but I have a few contacts I can draw on. What should I call it, though?"

"That's easy," I said, his cheerfulness beginning to infect me as well, "_Sunset Star Radio._"

With happiness lingering in both our hearts, Malcolm and I went our separate ways. He promised me that I'd be credited on air when he got the station set up, and I promised that I'd be listening as soon as my Pip-Boy picked up the station. I felt genuinely good about that act. By having Malcolm change his approach to the star warning, he was out of harm's way. That would keep the old man alive a lot longer. Until Sunset Star Radio was up and running, I was content to listen to Radio New Vegas. The host was nice, and the music wasn't bad, despite being well out of my usual genre. My walk down the road was uninterrupted, but there were a few tense moments as I caught my first glimpses of some of the Wasteland's critters.

Radroaches were pretty much exactly what was on the tin. Giant, radiation-mutated cockroaches. Just seeing one made my skin crawl, and I was thankful that it was over by that crashed bus and puddle of radioactive sludge instead of on the road. Bloatflies were a similar story. They were tricky little bastards too, flitting around and shooting stingers from their arse with the force of a crossbow. I saw a few coyotes too. They were some of the only animals not twisted by radiation, and they seemed more curious about me than ready to rip my throat out as Sunny had warned. Maybe I was just naturally gifted with animals? Most household pets back home had loved me on sight, even the ones that usually didn't like strangers. I stopped when I caught sight of another critter up on the nearby cliff. It was a short, bipedal lizard with steel blue scales and fiery orange eyes. It let out an odd squeak and I could have sworn it waved one of its short, stubby arms at me before running off out of sight. I stayed still, a swirl of emotions and thoughts running through my head. In the end, they were released in the form of another un-manly _Squee_ as I came to a critical conclusion. Geckos were as adorable as they were tasty.

Another hour of walking passed, and I could begin to see _something_ on the horizon. Crouching down, I pulled my binoculars up and took a closer look. What I saw confused me a bit. Why was I seeing roller coaster tracks? Another thought occurred to me, and I checked the highest point of the tracks. My hunch was correct, as I could just barely make out the shape of a man in a black leather coat with a scopeless rifle. I checked my Pip-Boy map for any other towns nearby, and quickly came to the conclusion that I was looking at Primm. The option to take out the sniper was available, but I didn't want to risk putting my enemies on alert until i had a more complete map of their forces.

I let my binoculars fall back around my neck and continued my walk. The western side of Primm was divided from the east by a collapsed bridge that had been poorly covered by a sheet of metal. I could make out several guard posts formed from the same metal. The western side was flying flags, marked with the two-headed bear I'd seen on Private McMahon's uniform. Once I was close enough, I was able to read the words on the flag, 'New California Republic'. My reflection on the flag was cut short as an NCR Trooper came running up to me with rifle in hand.

"Hey, where do you think you're going? Primm is off limits," The trooper said. It was an unprofessional approach, and it showed that this was a rookie, probably fresh out of basic. Yep, his hands were trembling.

"Private McMahon should have told your CO I'd be coming," I said, taking a step forward. The trooper flinched and raised his rifle to point at me.

"Bullshit. Just turn right back around, and I won't put a bullet between your eyes!" The Trooper snapped, trying to act tough to compensate for his fear.

"You haven't even taken the safety off, Rookie," I replied, grinning as I saw the mirror between this situation and an encounter in Metal Gear Solid 4.

"Careful, I'm no rookie! I'm a ten year vet!"

Holy hell, he even said the same line! How does this type of stuff even happen? The trooper tilted his head and looked down at the side of his AR15 ripoff, checking the safety for himself. That was when I struck, moving forward to grab the rifle by its barrel sleeve with one hand, and dealing the trooper a light punch to the throat with the other to knock him off balance. Without missing a beat, I grabbed the rifle with my other hand as well and pulled, rotating my body. The soldier was yanked off his feet and went head over heels before landing on his back, thoroughly disarmed of his rifle. I shifted my grip on the weapon, flipped off the safety, and racked the bolt, pointing the gun down at the soldier. _Flawless. I doubt I'll get a chance to do something like that again._

"Jameson?! Oh fuck! Stand down!"

A tanned man in the NCR uniform, sans the chestplate, ran up, pointing a Hi-Power at me. I just smiled, flipped the rifle's safety back on, and tossed it onto its owner's chest.

"My name's Rain Nero. Your CO should be expecting me," I said, smiling.

"Private McMahon was going on about finding some guy in Goodsprings who could help us. If you're him, then why the hell did you attack Private Jameson?" The trooper demanded.

"Plain and simple, I tried to explain the same thing, only he decided to threaten me. I showed him why threatening random people is a bad idea," I replied, "No real harm done, and it caught the attention of more reasonable people."

The trooper let out a long, exasperated sigh and holstered his weapon. I couldn't help but chuckle at the look on his face. It said plain and clear 'I'm getting too old for this shit'.

"I'm Sergeant McGee, New California Republic Army 5th Battalion, 1st Company. So long as you aren't going to cause any more trouble, you're clear to go speak to Lieutenant Hayes in the command tent."

I gave the Sergeant a nod and strode merrily into the NCR camp, catching the sound of him chewing out the Private. I passed by Private McMahon, who was stationed at the makeshift bridge between the two sections of Primm. We shared a wave, and he seemed relieved that I had arrived safely. Two tents were set up near a section of the stone wall that surrounded all of Primm. The tents were made of tan canvas of similar color to the NCR uniforms, and had a boxy design to maximize usable space. Taking a gamble, I entered the left tent. Inside, a female trooper of Asian descent was sitting at a small table looking over some documents, and a Causasian man wearing a beret and bandoleer over his uniform was pacing the tent, seemingly lost in thought.

"Lieutenant Hayes?" I spoke up. The man's gaze snapped to me in an instant, and his thoughtfulness was covered by a professional mask. He nodded and introduced himself more fully.

"I'm Lieutenant Hayes of the New California Republic Army, 5th Battalion, 1st Company. What's your business?"

"My name's Rain Nero. I'm here to assist with your Powder Ganger problem," I replied.

"McMahon said you'd be coming, claimed you were involved with forming the Goodsprings Militia," Hayes began his pacing again. "Even if you've got the skills, I'm not comfortable sending an unknown civilian to what could very easily be their death."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Nothing, unfortunately. Primm isn't in our jurisdiction, and we're short on men as it is."

"And the men you do have are complete rookies," I added. Hayes perked up at this, and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Jameson?" He asked.

"Jameson," I deadpanned. Hayes let out a sigh similar to the one McGee had, and the female trooper in the tent let out a small laugh.

"Oh this ought to be good. What did he do this time?" She asked.

"Acted with unprofessional conduct, and threatened to shoot me after I said you were expecting me," I repeated. Hayes cut in and brought us back on topic,

"We're getting distracted here. The point is, I can't authorize this mission. I'm sorry, but you'll have to head back to Goodsprings."

"You don't have to authorize a damn thing," I stated, "I only checked in for McMahon's sake, and to get any helpful information you might have on their numbers and command structure."

"Why are you so dedicated to this?" Hayes prompted, "Did one of the convicts do you wrong?"

"I have no grand vendetta against the Powder Gangers," I chuckled, "It's as simple as the fact that there are people in need, and I have the means to help. That's all I need."

"People like you don't usually last long in the wasteland," Hayes sighed, "If you're going to attempt the mission, there's nothing I can do to stop you. However, understand that there's also nothing I can do to help you either."

"I'll report back when the town's clear."

* * *

Lying prone at the southern edge of Primm, I swept over the town and its major two attractions with my binoculars. The convicts didn't have many people out on the streets, and even those they did have were sticking to the road in front of the Bison Steve hotel. The only exceptions to this were the snipers posted at the two highest points of the roller coaster's track. I'd have to make a tighter sweep of the small residential district and the two shacks by the destroyed gas station, but those four were the targets I could handle with my rifle. I crawled behind a small boulder, rose into a crouch, pulled the rifle off of my back, and prayed to all things holy that I'd calibrated the scope correctly. The snipers were my first priority. If I killed the two on the street without taking them out, they'd go on alert. I settled and aimed for the sniper on the southern end of town, closest to me. The Varmint Rifle was pretty light, so it wasn't too hard to keep it steady. I moved back into my observation position and looked through my scope.

The southern sniper was lighting up a cigarette, his Varmint Rifle leaning against the safety rail of the track next to him. I checked my aim and held for three seconds, then took the shot. The suppressor did its job, reducing the report to a sound similar to a blowpipe. I cycled the bolt on reflex and sighted down the scope again. The sniper was dead and had fallen forward, causing him to hang over the safety rail. I shifted my attention to the northern sniper and began the process of lining up my shot once again. This one was a little more active, and was watching the northern road to Goodsprings. I lined up the shot, held for three seconds, and pulled the trigger. The shot hit between his shoulder and jaw, and the man slumped over the railing, dropping his rifle. I watched it fall, then looked around my scope at the main road to see if the other two convicts had noticed. _Shit shit shit!_

One was starting to walk over, hefting a cleaver and a stick of dynamite. I cycled the rifle's bolt and lined up on him. _Three, two, one..._ I took the shot, and it impacted with the back of the criminal's head. I had two shots left in the magazine and the last convict was aware something was going on. I cycled the bolt and lined up. _Three..._ The convict started running to his fallen compatriot's body. _Two..._ He knelt down next to the fallen man, then looked up at the dead sniper. _One..._ The convict actually looked in my direction, and a tiny glimpse of me was the last thing he ever saw. Letting out my tension in one breath, I rose into a crouch, pulled back the bolt, then thumbed the magazine release for my rifle. Reaching into the far left magazine pouch on the back of my belt, I retrieved another magazine and slotted it into place, then cycled the bolt forward again and slung the rifle over over shoulder. I drew the Mk III from its holster on my left hip and pulled out my knife, holding it in a reverse grip.

I made my way down into the residential district, where the condition was similar to the homes in Goodsprings. Some had been completely demolished, and others were still standing with only mild work done to patch them up. Using the tactic I had with Malcolm at Jean Sky Diving, I paused outside each door and waited to hear if anyone was making even the slightest noise inside. I heard nothing on the first house, but went inside for a more in-depth check. The very first thing I noticed was a kebab of some unknown meat on a plate set at a table in the main room. It was cold, and beginning to attract flies. I examined the table closer, and saw that a thin layer of dust had begun to form on the wood. Nobody had been in that house, and whoever had left during the middle of a meal to get to safety from the convicts.

The situation was the same for the other houses. No convicts, but signs that people just got up and left. No signs that the convicts had raided the houses either, which seemed odd to me. The two shacks by the gas station were up next, requiring me to go around the wall and pass the bridge leading to the NCR Camp. McMahon was still on duty, and we shared another friendly wave as I passed by. I actually liked McMahon, he seemed like a bro in the making. Sucked that he was in the army, though. It meant that he wouldn't be able to go with me on awesome bro quests. I paused outside the first shack by the gas station, blinking as I went back over those last few thoughts. They weren't wrong, though.

I did my usual round of listening outside of the shack, made easier by the thin metal siding that served as its walls. Once I was confident that there was nobody inside, I entered. The shack was a single room, with worn advertising posters used to cover some of the gaps in the walls. There wasn't anything really of note, but I did learn that the year 2281 had finally perfected toaster and refrigerator technology. For the sake of courtesy, I shut off the lights in the shack on my way out. The next shack made me pause. I could feel the familiar tingle of spiritual presence from a full three meters away. Something terrible had happened in that home. I could hear the radio playing inside once I got close enough, but it was distorting oddly, and ocassionally bursts of static would interrupt the transmission. There was nothing to do but go in. It took a lot of effort to fight my instincts, which were telling me to get as far away from there as possible.

The main room of the building was actually a small office, with a pair of desks on either end of the room, one sporting a dead terminal on top. On the right side of the office space was a reloading bench for making ammunition, like the public one I'd seen between Chet's store and Trudy's saloon in Goodsprings. It was also a reminder for me to start collecting my spent casings. Along the back wall was a counter, some filing cabinets, and a poster showing a man in some sort of power suit offering a helping hand to Uncle Sam. On the counter was the radio I'd heard, and my presence seemed to have made the distortion and static increase tenfold. I looked to the left side of the room, and immediately I saw why there was so much spiritual activity.

Two bodies had been left to rot on the bed, both decapitated. One man, one woman. A wife and husband. My vision flickered to black for a moment, then returned, and both bodies were whole again. A man and a woman, husband and wife, both with brown hair and happily in love with each other. The husband was Primm's sheriff, an easy job most days since the people of Primm were good folk. They were asleep when the end came, and their spirits had been bound to the place where their bodies were left. My vision flickered once again, and both man and woman were staring at me with the glazed eyes of death. A silver and brown blur flew from under the bed, colliding with my chest with enough force to blast me halfway into the office space. I looked down at what hit me, and found an old Winchester lever-action rifle, fitted with a peep sight. I returned my pistol and knife to their holsters and stood, carrying the rifle with me.

Once again, words came out of my mouth that I had no hand in deciding. Once again, they were true words, a promise I intended to keep.

"Rest easy, Sheriff. I'll get the men that did this."

The Sheriff and his wife both gave me a nod, and my vision flickered one last time. The oppressive feeling in the house vanished, and the couple's corpses were once again lying headless on the bed, unmoving. The radio's distortion and static faded away, returning the near-demonic sounds it was producing to normal music. Wasting no more time, I made a beeline out of the shack. My heart was pounding and my nerves were shot after that encounter with the 'other side'. My knees felt weak, and I fell on my rear, doing nothing more than just breathing. I was starting to remember why I tried to avoid contact with spirits.

Once I'd recovered from that ordeal, I took the time to examine my new rifle. I tested the lever, and flinched as the weapon spat a cartridge at my face. Seeing that as the easy way to check the caliber, I retrieved the cartridge and examined it. I recognized the blue band around the bullet from the .357 Magnum cartridges I'd been given with Joe Cobb's revolver. I worked the lever a few more times and made sure the rifle was fully unloaded, since I didn't plan to actually use it until I could do some work on the gun. I placed the rounds in the pouch with my other .357 cartridges and got back to my feet. I found that the loops sewn on my backpack made for a decent way to carry the rifle until I could get a proper strap added to it. Taking one last careful breath to steady myself, I drew the Mk III and my knife once more.

With most of the town covered and cleared, there were three places left to sweep. One was the 'Mojave Express' building. I winced as I saw the dead African-American sitting outside the brick building. He wore a messenger bag with the NCR flag sewn on, and I checked it only to find some indication of the man's identity. I came away with a small document, which I filed away for later reading. I followed my standard procedure for the building itself, then entered. Once again, the building was split half and half between a work place and a home. In this instance, it appeared to be a delivery company of some kind. A small broken robot was sitting on the counter, with a few scrap parts to try and fix it. I decided to leave them alone, and exited the building.

Since the Bison Steve hotel was likely to be a much longer endeavor, I decided to check the Vikki and Vance casino first. Listening at the door this time provided me with the sounds of people talking and moving around, as well as a radio playing. That led me to believe one of two possibilities. Either the casino was where the civilians had holed up, or it was the convicts' hiding place. One way or another, I needed to handle my entry carefully. At last, a ping of inspiration hit my mind. Very carefully, I turned the knob of the main door and let it swing inward just a bit, then retreated out of sight and nudged the door open further. An old African-American man came running out, brandishing a revolver and looking a bit fearful, but determined. I knew I'd found the civilians.

"The next time the door mysteriously opens, you might not want to run out like an idiot," I said, causing the man to jump in surprise. The next thing I knew, there was a loud '_bang!' _and a searing pain in my left bicep. I grit my teeth and felt a growl rumble in my throat as I stood there glaring at the man who had shot me.

"Shit! Son, you shouldn't have snuck up on me like that! Come on, let's get you inside, before those criminals get us!" He practically dragged me into the casino, where more people were waiting with guns ready, mostly Single Action Army revolvers and Varmint Rifles. I tore my arm out of the man's grip and made a show of holstering my weapons, doing my damnedest to ignore the pain and blood trickling down my arm. _My_ blood. Spilt by some random asshole with a happy trigger finger. I'd expected to get injured at some point along the mission, but certainly not by one of the townsfolk I was trying to _save_!

"For the goddamn record," I snarled out, still fixing the old man with a death glare, "I already took out the four sentries and checked the town. Any convicts still left are in the Bison Steve hotel."

"Now I feel even worse about this," The old man said, "Here, I've got a stimpak on me, it's the least I can do to right the wrong."

Without so much as waiting for an 'okay', he pulled a syringe filled with a reddish liquid out of his pants pocket and stuck it into my arm just below the wound. The stream of curses that erupted from my mouth would have been enough to make the saltiest sailor blush, and it was enough for most of Primm's residents to take a long step away from me in case I got violent. True to the effects Doc Mitchell talked about when he offered to sell me some stimpaks, I could already feel the tissue in and around the wound begin to crawl, slowly knitting itself back together. A small piece of metal popped out after a moment and clattered to the ground. The pain faded to a dull ache. I reached up with deceptive calm and pulled the syringe out of my arm, then set it on the nearest table, which happened to have a few slot machines as well.

"When someone is suffering from a gunshot would, the standard procedure is to elevate the would and apply a pressure bandage. Nowhere in that equation is there _**randomly injecting a needle into someone without their goddamn consent!**_" The last words came out more as a roar than a shout, and I swore I saw the old man's hair blow back a bit. Still grumbling to myself, I retrieved a bottle of water and a bit of clean cloth from my backpack. I popped the top and took a swig, then doused a bit over my arm to aid in getting the blood off. Stupid settlers and their stupid town. Stupid _me_ for trying to help the idiots in the first place. I'm not even getting _paid_ to do this crap! The old man was still hovering over me, looking a little awkward, but apologetic.

"I swear, if you _ever_ pull something like that again, I'll impale you through the spleen with a rusty pike," I growled at him one last time, then took a deep breath, counted to ten, and released. "But first I'll have to find the rusty pike."

"Well, youngster, I have to say that is one of the more interesting reactions I've seen to a person getting a stimpak," The old man chuckled, "Name's Johnson Nash. Normally, I run the Mojave Express outpost here in Primm."

"Not sure if you knew, but two of your couriers are dead. One's buried in the cemetery up by Goodsprings, and the other's right outside your store," I told him. Johnson's expression fell, and he shook his head sadly.

"Guess I shouldn't be too surprised. Being a courier is risky work. Never should have accepted the job from that cowboy robot. Had us hire six couriers, you know? Cargo was strange too, a pair of dice, a chess piece. That kind of stuff."

"Cowboy Robot?" I prompted, hoping that it wasn't Victor.

"Yeah, had the picture of a cowboy on its chest where its face should be."

"Goddammit Victor," I grumbled, facepalming. I knew there was something _off_ about that robot.

"Oh, you know the one?" Nash asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Eeyup, currently lives in Goodsprings. He actually tried to save the courier that died there, but didn't arrive in time. I get the feeling that whatever she was carrying was the real package, and the rest were just decoys. It's not my business anyhow," I sighed and unslung my Varmint Rifle from over my head and set it next to my backpack. "What _is_ my business is wrapping up this mission. Can I trust you not to touch my stuff while I'm trying to save your town?"

Nash sighed and raised his hands in defeat.

"I know we got off on the wrong foot, but you can trust me. Your loot will be safe until you get back."

I nodded, not mentioning how every time someone tried to reassure me that I could trust them, I started looking for the knife that would stab me in the back. I removed my medical bag and stretched, making sure taking the stimpak had fully done its job. With near thirty pounds of weight removed, I could move a bit faster, and I'd need that speed if I ended up getting into a firefight. Satisfied, I walked to the Vikki and Vance's door, drew my Mk III and trusty knife once more, and went into danger once more. Johnson made one final comment just as the door closed.

"Best of luck against those crooks, son. You're going to need it."

* * *

The entryway of the Bison Steve Hotel was lit only by a dim, flickering bulb. An overturned table and cabinet were placed across from the entrance but nobody was stationed there, making the crude defense point useless. On the right side of the room, I spotted the glow of an active computer terminal. The device itself was sitting on top of what used to be the hotel's front desk. I'd have to check that out later once that floor was cleared. I was still missing a lot of the world's lore, and any tidbits I could get from data entries would help fill in the gaps.

"Damn. Running out of smokes again," A voice grumbled from the hallway beyond the defense point.

"Are you shitting me? You go through what, four packs a day? Need to cut back, man. Cigarettes don't grow on trees," Another said. From my estimate, they were just around the corner. I moved up just beyond the overturned tables and crouched as low as possible. I only had one chance to get these guys, or I'd have to deal with an open confrontation. That was something I was most certainly _not_ prepared for.

"Well they're made of leaves or some shit, right? So technically they _do _grow on trees."

They were much closer now.

"Whatever. If I find out you've been stealing _my_ smokes, I'll kneecap you, no matter what the boss says."

I heard the first convict turn away to respond to that statement. _Now!_ I popped up over the table, weaving my arm around one convict's body to slit his throat, and double-tapping the other with my Mk III. I wiped my knife off on the blue suit jacket one of the convicts was wearing, and began the slow process of dragging their bodies behind the front desk, where they wouldn't be found. As a matter of habit, I looted the magazines from the pair's 9mm pistol and Varmint Rifle. I stashed the weapons where I could easily collect them later and passed the tables once again, pausing to peek around the corner. Another convict was slowly making his way towards the far side of the lobby, balancing a Varmint Rifle on his shoulder. I aimed and pulled the trigger. When the man fell over either dead or dying, I advanced, checking an open doorway. Inside was a wrecked gift shop, with merchandise strewn about like trash. There were wooden toy cars, teddy bears, empty Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles... For the sake of completeness, I checked behind the counter. I found a locked safe and the remains of several broken bobby pins strewn about... and _hello_. There was a book, in seemingly pristine condition, titled 'Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor'. I'd almost missed spotting it in the low light and trash.

I backtracked and added the book to my growing stash of loot, then moved across the lobby. There were a few noticeable areas leading off of the lobby, like an elevator shaft, a stairwell leading up to the hotel's second floor, and a maintenance door that lead god-knew-where. Unlike the entrance, which was covered in rubble and roughly patched back up with wood, the lobby had survived mostly unscathed. There was still some trash lying about, but I assumed that to be the work of the convicts. I checked the maintenance door first, but found it locked. Unfortunately for that lock, there was a gap in the door frame. I paused to listen and make sure there wasn't someone waiting for me on the other side of the door. After a few seconds I deemed it clear and slipped my knife into the gap, using the old trick that was usually reserved to credit cards. I pushed in the maintenance door, pausing only to unlock it properly from the inside, and moved down the tile-floored hall beyond. The far end was blocked by more rubble, but a side-corridor showed that the detour wasn't a waste of time.

I peeked around the corner, then instantly pulled my head back. A convict was standing in the kitchen at the end of that corridor, with a gas tank on his back hooked up to nothing less than a _flamethrower_. I was about to just throw my hands up and call bullshit.

"Shit! Someone killed Kenny!" I heard the muffled shout behind me, and mentally kicked myself. I'd forgotten to retrieve one of the bodies.

"What?!" The flamethrower-packing convict roared in anger, "The bastards! They killed Kenny!"

I leaned out from cover and lined up a shot, then pulled the trigger on him, putting a bullet just under the military helmet he'd somehow gotten his hands on. Unlike the others, he did _not_ fall silently. His gas tank and weapon clattered to the ground, drawing more attention than I needed. Sensing open confrontation ahead, I flipped the safety on my Mk III and holstered it, switching to the comfortable familiarity of the Hi-Power.

"Oh fuck! They got the boss!" One of the voices screamed. I heard the running of footsteps entering the kitchen, and two men in armed with lead pipes and tire irons knelt at their fallen leader's side.

"You, you caused this you fucking asshole!" One of the men screamed, looking to my left at something I couldn't see through the limited area. _A hostage?_ The convict raised his pipe to strike, and I reflexively shot him. The loud report seemed to echo through the entire building, marking the complete end to stealth.

"!" The other convict let out a wordless noise of shock and surprise, then a scream of psychotic rage. He barreled down the corridor at me with the speed and ferocity of a charging bull. My reflexes proved to be exceptional once again, allowing me to block the swing of his tire iron, grab the man by the throat, and throw him to the ground. I double-tapped him with my Hi-Power. I waited to see if any more convicts would show up, but none came. I moved forward into the kitchen, keeping my guard up. It didn't take me long to find who the convict was blaming for his comrades' deaths. Bound and gagged, a middle-aged man dressed in commonly available leather armor was staring at me with wide eyes from his kneeling position between a refrigerator and dirty mattress. Without a moment of hesitation, I moved forward and cut his bonds.

"And who might you be?" I asked, returning my knife and pistol to their holsters.

"Deputy Beagle, at your service," The man drawled, "Certainly is the low point in my law enforcement career. Thank you kindly for cutting me free."

"I swept the town already. Any criminals left alive are in the upper floor of the hotel," I informed the deputy as I pulled him to his feet. "The civilians are all holed up in the casino. You should get to safety while I wrap up."

"Well, I'll defer to your judgement on these matters."

Without any further prompting, Deputy Beagle began to 'sneak' out of the hotel. I use quotes around that because he was making a complete parody of stealth with his movements. Anyone with a third of their brain would be able to detect him. That was probably why he got captured in the first place! Once I was sure that Beagle was out of the hotel, I began the grand process of looting. Cigarettes, in particular, seemed to be the item of the day. I found loose packs and cartons damn near _everywhere_. While I wasn't a smoker myself, other people were, and I figured I could probably use ye olde cancer sticks as a trade good. In the main dining room I discovered another wasteland critter, though this one was dead and being roasted over a campfire. From the best I could tell, it looked like a two-headed cow. That made me start craving steak, but I didn't have the time to sit there and make sure the cow was cooked properly. At the very least, I was delighted to find that I wouldn't need to hunt too far for food. Between bags full of surprisingly fresh produce and a stocked fridge, I had all I needed to make a decent lunch with plenty to spare for the road. I snacked on a few carrots to make sure I had enough energy to keep going for the remainder of my mission, and added all that I'd be carrying out of the hotel to my stash at the entrance.

There was only the upper floors left to loot... and clear, not necessarily in that order. I climbed the stairwell, trying to get my brain back on the task at hand. The problem with the second floor, as I rapidly discovered, was that it had a lot of rooms, and that meant a lot of places for people to hide. The only reliable way I could think of to clear out the convicts was to put them on full alert and then take them out as they came to investigate. The problem with that plan was that I wasn't used to drawn-out encounters, and a floor full of enemies with an unknown amount of firearms meant that there was too high a chance of me taking a bullet.

For the time being, I followed standard procedure. I moved past a maintenance closet and the upper section of the elevator shaft I'd seen on the first floor. There was a convict around the corner, who quickly and easily fell to a slit throat. I dragged the body back and unlocked the maintenance closet with the same tactic I'd used on the lower floor, and stashed the body there. He had been carrying a 9mm as well, providing me with an extra two magazines for my primary 'loud' weapon. Including the one in my Hi-Power, that was _eight_ total magazines. With some basic math, I realized that I had over a hundred 9mm bullets to burn through. I caught another convict down the hallway and dropped him with a shot from my Mk III, setting this one in a chair so it just looked like he had fallen asleep. Rubble blocked my way around the corner, prompting me to begin checking the rooms.

If the first floor of the Bison Steve had taken some damage, the second and third floors were _demolished_. The only way I found to reach the third floor was by climbing the broken floor in one of the rooms. The remaining criminals fell without much resistance, making me almost wish I'd alerted them so I wouldn't have been bored by the sixth guy I killed. Only two of them, who I assumed were the relief snipers, actually had firearms, in the form of Varmint Rifles. I was so worn out by the end of it that I didn't even bother to search the rooms more thoroughly. I was content to just take the two rifles and pistol, then haul my arse back down the stairs.

Even so, my work was not quite done. There was still the gift shop safe to sort out, and that terminal by the main desk. Grumbling to myself, I yanked open the vending machine at the bottom of the stairwell and grabbed a 'Nuka-Cola' from it. The cooling unit on the machine had long-since malfunctioned and died, but I just needed a drink and wasn't a fan of alcohol. I felt a little better by the time I'd finished the Nuka-Cola, but my annoyance levels were still critical. I needed time to rest and get my head back together, but there were people waiting on me to give them the all-clear. My resolve and dedication to certain philosophies were being sorely tested in the face of reality. Once I'd dropped the rifles with the growing pile of _stuff_, I returned to the gift shop and stared at the safe for a moment. The face of the safe was fitted with a numeric keypad, still functioning after all this time. Alternatively, there was a more standard tumbler lock installed for quicker access. The safe was airtight and had a self-contained power supply that hadn't died out in all of the years of abuse it had likely seen. Picking the lock was out of the question, since I didn't have any bobby pins. I also couldn't make an improvised crowbar to try and get it open, due to the safe being airtight.

I let out a cry of despair as I realized what I'd have to do if I wanted to get into the safe. I'd have to test combinations, one by one. This was a challenge, and my looter's instinct was telling me that something _good_ was in the safe. It wouldn't have been installed and left uncracked if there wasn't. Still, I needed to go tell the people of Primm they could return home. That took priority over my selfish desires. Determined to take care of it as fast as possible, I practically sprinted out of the hotel and across the street. I opened the door to the casino, stuck my head inside, and looked at Johnson Nash, who was still by the door chatting with Deputy Beagle. Once they noticed me, I rattled off at high speed.

"Convictsarealldeadfoundalockedsafeinthehotelthathassomethingawesomeneedtocrackitkaythanksbye!"

I darted into the room and found the gear I'd left. Quickly grabbing the silenced rifle, medical bag, and backpack, I charged out of the casino bellowing a war cry. As it was, I completely missed the confused looks I received from most of Primm's residents.

* * *

**Ending Notes**: Holy hell, that took me most of the day to actually write. I'm glad that the (one) review for this story is positive. It really gave me the motivation to keep going on. Anyways, I promised some further explanations last chapter, so here we go.

Why is Rain so seemingly overpowered? Well, it's all relative. Due to his (mostly faked) skills with CQC, Rain has the upper hand over the average person in close range encounters. Anyone with proper unarmed training could probably take him down without too much difficulty(such as NCR Rangers or Legion Praetorians). The Powder Gangers and the average NCR grunt(we see the rough shape of their training during _Flags of Our Foul-Ups)_ don't have that advantage. Rain is usually pretty calm during combat, but once he has one major weakness, and that's a berserk button when he experiences unexpected pain. He also gets a bit careless when he's annoyed, which can lead to missing out on certain things. There's actually quite a bit of good loot in the upper floors of the Bison Steve Hotel, including a nice laser pistol that _would_ have been Rain's introduction to the field of Energy Weapons.

_Until next time, Everyone!_


	3. Entry 003

**Disclaimer: Fallout is owned by Bethesda.**

**Review Replies:**

**AgoTheTiny(**again**)**: I admit the MGS4 sequence in the last chapter was a bit overdone. As always, thank you for your input and support. It means a lot, mate. Descriptive writing has always been one of my downfalls. I've got dialogue down, and I can usually translate an action sequence from my head to paper(or a text document) without too much being lost in translation. It also doesn't help that I was pretty burnt out by the time I finished the last chapter, resulting in the general loss of quality. The upper floors of the Bison Steve were _supposed_ to be a longer sequence.

**shadowelf144 : **Hugs and support are appreciated!

**Assozat:** Wow. That is... well, an interesting OC to be sure. I'll see if I can work him in, but it likely won't be for a while. If I _do_ include Zach, he'll be rebalanced a lot since you went overboard on his stats.

**003**

* * *

"_Hey, hey, it's Mr. New Vegas letting you know I've got a new Christmas compilation coming out soon; Nuclear Winter Wonderland. Look for it on holotape. If you like news, then you're gonna love our next segment. Traders from California are being turned away from Mojave Outpost, where the NCR is concerned about dangers along Nipton Highway and I-15._ _That's the news. This is Mr New Vegas, Filling in for...Mr. New Vegas. Hey New Vegas, have you ever said that you loved someone when it wasn't quite true? Sure you have, but you shouldn't because It's a Sin to Tell a Lie._"

"Damn, you're still at it, sonny?" Johnson Nash's voice interrupted my concentration as I finished inputting yet another four digit code. Six hours. Six hours straight I'd been sitting at that safe,testing code after code, from 0000 and climbing upward to 9999. One of them was the password, and unlike a computer, I had infinite tries. Infinite tries that were getting me seemingly no closer to cracking the damn safe. I didn't even look up at Mr. Nash as I responded.

"This is a test of will. My will against that of whoever manufactured this safe. There's something good in here. I'm not sure _what_, but it's something that is going to be worth all of this trouble."

It took me roughly three seconds to put in each code, followed by another second for the safe to process its accuracy and let out a negative beep. I was reaching the low 5000 range, my hand working nearly on its own to type on the pad. I'd been smart enough to keep a stock of drinks and food nearby, but the lack of sleep was starting to wear on me.

"You don't go halfway on anything you do, eh?" Johnson chuckled, "Well, you might want to take a small break. The NCR boys from across the bridge are asking about you."

5158... nope. I forced my hand to pull away and grabbed a loose sheet of paper and pencil to write down my stopping point. Standing was a painful experience, and I nearly fell over in the act.

"May as well find a trader while I'm up and get some of this stuff sold off," I sighed, gesturing to my massive pile of assorted goods.

"Heh, nobody really uses the Bison Steve in the first place, so I suppose anything that you grab _does_ technically belong to you. As for a trader, well, that would be me. I'll help you carry it back to my shop, and we'll talk over a deal," Nash said, "If you trust me enough, I'll handle it while you talk to the NCR."

I nodded in agreement and stretched out the kinks one more time, letting out a sigh of utter relief as multiple joints popped. Mr. Nash cringed at the sound, and I rolled my eyes at the man. He could handle the blood from shooting me, but joints popping bugged him? As soon as I was outside of the hotel, I froze like a deer in headlights. Standing in the middle of the road was Private McMahon, and he looked _pissed_.

"You look like hell, Rain," He said.

"Climbing through an abandoned building will do that to you. Kill count was confirmed at..." I paused and mentally counted up how many convicts I'd taken down. There were the four outside, six on the first floor, and eight on the upper floors. "Eighteen. Most of them were using improvised weapons. Tire irons, lead pipes and the like. The firearms that I _did_ find on them are going to be refurbished and sold to Mr. Nash. The NCR can trade directly with him if they want any of the stock."

"Those firearms are the property of the NCR," McMahon protested.

"Then they were the property of criminals. Now they're my property. Do you want to argue this point, McMahon? You were the one who approached me with the mission in the first place. You _knew_ that I wouldn't be paid for completing it. Now you're trying to take away the only thing I could find on-site that would cover the costs?" I took a step forward, and McMahon put a hand on his sidearm. "Did you even care about the civilians? Or was I just supposed to be a delivery boy for some cheap guns?"

"I..." McMahon closed his mouth and shook his head, then stated again. "Just give up the rifles, Rain. They're not worth the trouble."

I felt a deadly calm wash over me. Betrayal. The man I'd thought was a decent human being had played me for a few guns that the troopers didn't even _need_.

"The variant of the AR15 you're carrying is the standard issue rifle for the NCR. What would you need the lower grade Varmint Rifles for?" I asked. McMahon hesitated. In that moment of his uncertainty, I darted forward, ducking and weaving to make myself a harder target. McMahon's eyes widened, and he clumsily thumbed the safety on his 9mm. By the time he even began to aim, I was on him. I grabbed the man by his wrist and head, hooked my leg around his, and rotated my body. With a loud _thump,_ McMahon was down, and I'd actually applied enough force to knock him out. Without further ado, I lifted the man's body, slung him over my shoulder, and began walking towards the NCR's camp. The sentry on duty, who I recognized as the female trooper that had been inside the command tent, just stared at me with her jaw hanging open as I passed into the camp. I dumped the backstabber near her post and kept walking further into the camp, making for the command tent.

Hayes was inside, as I expected,and he nearly jumped out of his chair when he saw me.

"You're back! I heard the gunshot hours ago and assumed the worst," He said, then cut off when he saw my expression. After a moment, he gathered the nerve to speak up again. "What happened?"

"The entire mission was a clever play by McMahon to earn a few caps," I growled out. "He just wanted to sell off the guns the convicts were using. Confronted me right after I got out of the Bison Steve Hotel."

"Dammit... First Jameson's incompetent, Tyrone's shady, and McMahon abandoned his post for _this_," Hayes sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me you didn't kill him?"

"Nope. Pulled a pretty standard takedown and bounced his head off the road, but he _should_ be fine. I dumped him with your sentry at the camp entrance."

"He got one by both of us. I honestly thought he cared about the civilians," Hayes shook his head and smiled sadly. "I'll make sure that proper action is taken. How about you? What will you do now?"

That question caught me by surprise. I honestly didn't know. Aside from cracking that safe and selling off enough loot to put myself back at a decent carrying weight, my to-do list was pretty short.

"I'm not sure, really. There's a bit of business to wrap up in Primm, then I may head back up to Goodsprings. I haven't given it much thought."

Hayes gave a nod of understanding and let the matter drop. I took that as my sign to leave, and left the Lieutenant to his woes. I made my way back through Primm, and once again marveled at how quickly people could clean things up. All of the bodies were disposed of, and the bloodstain from the Mojave Express courier was gone from the front of Johnson Nash's store too. Decided to hold off on dealing with Mr. Nash until the next morning. Without anywhere else to sleep, I decided to go back into the hotel and crashed on one of the lobby's white couches. They looked shockingly similar to the couch in Doc Mitchell's house, which made me wonder if he had actually gotten his from the Bison Steve. No, there was no way, he'd have been killed on the road, or it would have gotten damaged during the trip. I closed my eyes and tried to settle in to sleep.

My dreams that night were twisted and disturbed. I relived every last kill I had made in the wasteland, counting a total of twenty-two. Every time a kill would repeat, things slowly began to change. Sounds and images distorted, bodies fell in different places, different positions. Just before I woke up, I saw all twenty-two men I'd killed staring at me with dead, soulless eyes. Then, I saw _myself_ lying on the couch in the Bison Steve, with all twenty-two men crowded around my helpless form. I snapped to awake with a surge of adrenaline. I rolled out of bed and fumbled for my pistol and knife. Once I had both weapons in my hands I felt safer, but something was definitely still wrong. Something had changed since I went to sleep.

_There._ Something was on the grayish wood of the elevator shaft's doors. I couldn't make it out clearly, since I'd shut off all of the lobby's lights before I went to bed. I turned on my Pip-Boy's screen and aimed its light at the door. There, written in something dark red and still wet, was a number.

"Twenty-two," I whispered into the silence of the dead hotel. Every lamp in the lobby turned on at once, flooding the room with light and blinding me for a few seconds. I was not ashamed to say that I fled. The hotel was now haunted with the ghosts of men that _I_ had killed. Being allowed to wake up at all was a blessing. I resolved not to go back into the hotel alone. Once I was safely outside in the morning sun did I relax and put my weapons away.

"Now what's got you spooked?" Mr. Nash asked, walking up to me from his store.

"Not something you want to get involved in," I breathed, trying to calm my racing heart. "If anyone needs to enter the Bison Steve, warn them to take someone with them, and keep a light on hand."

Nash frowned, but quickly gave a firm nod. It was good that he accepted my judgement, since I doubted the wasteland had anyone who could perform an exorcism.

"I know you've already done a lot for the town, but Beagle isn't cut out for being the Sheriff. We need to get the rule of law back here in Primm, a new sheriff," Nash cut into my thoughts a moment later. I just chuckled and rested my head against the concrete that made up the Bison Steve's outer walls.

"No rest for the wicked."

"Wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think you had the means to help."

Again he had that apologetic tone in his voice. It was enough to make me feel guilty about complaining.

"Well, do you have any suggestions for who would make a good sheriff?" I asked, looking up at the old man.

"Your guess is good as mine. You might luck upon someone who's a natural-born sheriff. I heard of one fella what got himself locked in that NCR jailhouse up I-15. Maybe that ain't the best credential, but a sheriff's a sheriff. I imagine the NCR would be able to bring some law to the town, too. But from what I seen they barely got the firepower to protect themselves," Nash counted off each of the options on his fingers, then shook his head and shot me a smile, "Just keep an ear out, and you're sure to find someone."

"The one in the prison is definitely out of the question. I'd have to go right into Powder Ganger territory, and they probably know to look for me by now," I sighed. "The NCR's the only real option I can see, and once the Powder Gangers are taken care of on a more permanent basis they'll probably help you get the town back to its former glory."

"If that's the route you want to go, I won't object. Seeing Primm back in top shape is on my bucket list. Anywho, you wanted to do some trading?"

* * *

For the condition of all I sold to Mr. Nash he cut me a decent deal. Three hundred caps joined the same amount in my backpack, and Nash was out to sell me enough to earn his money back. During that time I found myself continually distracted by the broken robot on his counter. The little guy had clearly seen some action during its time, from the Illinois license plate bolted to the left side of its round chassis, to the Roosevelt Academy honor student bumper sticker pasted on his right. There were countless dings and scratches in the metal, and almost all of the antennae projecting off of the frame were bent out of shape. I pondered the uses of a flying robot buddy. It could scout out dangerous areas for me, run messages and light packages around the wasteland... If that projection below the grate on the front of its frame was a weapon, I would a partner watching my back in combat.

" A courier dropped it off a couple months back. I got it working for a little while, but the darn thing pooped out," Nash said as though sensing my question. I had asked him to hunt around in his ammunition stores for any more .22lr rounds to replace those I'd shot in the Bison Steve.

"Any idea what's wrong with it?" I asked, gently tapping on the robot's frame.

"Hell if I know. I don't think its serious, but my tinkering days are long gone. Doesn't look like I have any .22's in stock. Sorry about that," Nash popped his head back over the counter and leaned on it, staring at the old robot. I doubted he'd let me take it, but I had to ask.

"Do you mind if I give a shot at fixing it?"

"You're welcome to try. Its yours if you can get it working," Nash smiled at me again, "I'd have dumped the old thing at the scrapyard near Novac by now, but someone has to watch the outpost."

"I'll take a closer look at it, but... uh... would you mind spotting me while I work on the safe in the hotel?" My grin was a little sheepish, and Nash just chuckled. He led the way back to the Bison Steve, making small jabs at me over my fear. That turned right around when I showed him the '22' on the elevator door, now the dark brown of dried blood. I don't think he took a hand off his revolver the whole time we were in there. The spirits of the men I'd killed were definitely _not_ happy that I'd returned. We heard more than a few unexplained noises, including a whole lot of banging from the floors above us, and a few screams of primal rage. All they did was motivate me to work faster.

Two tense hours passed, until I put in the code '7429'. Instead of the negative beep, the safe unsealed with a _whoosh_ of air, its door opening. Nash and I both let out shouts of triumph, and I began to transfer the spoils to my backpack. There were a lot of old US $20 bills, cleanly preserved by the safe's vacuum seal. A few bottles of vodka were stashed in there as well, and given their year... I had no doubt that no living human would be able to down more than a shot without getting knocked on their ass. The real treasures came from under a book named _Loveless_. I gasped as my hands touched the ivory handle of a _beautifully_ crafted Colt Single Action Army. The barrel, frame and cylinder were made of a matte black metal, covered in ornate gold etching. The grips were inlaid with the symbol of clubs from a deck of cards, and on the ejector tube was a small silver plate. It was from this plate that I learned the revolver's name. _Lucky_. From what I could see it was a .357 just like Joe Cobb's revolver. As much as I wanted to switch out the revolver I had holstered, using Lucky would have been a waste of a beautiful peace. Lucky was a high-class weapon, not made for killing people.

The other pistol resting in the safe _was_ made for grim work. I pulled the 9mm pistol out and began checking it over. Unlike the other models I'd seen in the wastes, this pistol had smooth wooden grips and a stainless steel finish, breaking the norm of a matte black finish and checkered grips. Other than the finish and grips, I couldn't see any real difference between it and the normal model. It had the same three-dot sight system, same thumb safety and ring hammer. Much to my annoyance, it didn't have a threaded barrel either, meaning it was another 'loud' gun. Still, it was in pristine condition, likely never fired. With the reliability of the Hi-Power, this stainless model would last me a long time. I felt a pang of guilt at the thought giving up my old Hi-Power, but it wasn't like I really forged a connection with that gun. Besides, someone else had used that gun to kill innocent people, as far as I could tell. Maybe cutting ties with it would allow me to shrug off a few of the ghosts.

"Some damn fine guns. Looks like your instincts about that safe were right," Nash smiled, then jumped when another ghost screamed at us. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get the hell out of here."

We exited the building at a pace just slightly slower than a run. That wasn't fast enough to avoid getting hit in the arse by the door handle when it slammed shut of its own accord.

"Does this sort of thing happen a lot around you? It'd be mighty nice to know now," Nash deadpanned. I just gave him another sheepish grin and scratched the back of my head. _Damn I need a good shower..._ _and a change of clothes that doesn't have half of the Mojave's collective dirt caked on it._

"Well, I actually got this old Winchester from the Sheriff's ghost," I admitted, "blasted me halfway across the room in the process."

The sound of Johnson's facepalm seemed to echo in the quiet streets of Primm, making a few of the residents turn to look in our direction.

"Damn, son. Just... damn," Nash unleashed an exasperated sigh, "I'm far too old to be messing with spirits."

"I thought I was done with it as well, but the Mojave seems to disagree," I grumbled, "Let's get this back to the Outpost."

We passed a team of Primm's residents trying to right a fallen street lamp with middling success. I hoped they wouldn't end up getting electrocuted... I shook my head to clear that train of thought and followed Nash into his home. I unloaded the stacks of dollar bills and all of the vodka(except for one bottle in case I _really_ needed to get drunk). Still feeling some regret, I pulled my old 9mm from its holster on my hip, dropped the magazine, and set it with the growing pile. Nash began counting caps, but I just placed my hand over his.

"Don't. It's all stuff I don't need, and you risked a lot to cover me in that hotel," I said, unloading the bullets from the old magazine to transfer them to the new. "That pistol was the first I ever shot in this wasteland. Keep it safe for me, aye?"

"Darn it, sonny, now you're making me feel guilty," Nash sighed.

"You're giving me a robot! Why should you feel guilty?" I laughed and slipped my stainless Hi-Power into its new home on my right hip. Nash just rolled his eyes and started packing his gifts away. The old man vanished for a few seconds, then returned with a pair of nails and a hammer. Over the course of a minute, he had my old gun on display in a place of honor right above his mail sorter with a number of framed newspaper clippings and an ad poster for Poseidon Energy. I was touched by the gesture, and speechless. Why were old people in the wasteland so awesome? First Doc Mitchell, and now Nash. I quickly wiped my eyes and moved over to examine the little robot as a distraction. I didn't need to have an emotional breakdown. Especially not in front of Nash.

A lot of effort and improvised mechanics went into getting the robot's frame open, but I managed it without causing any permanent damage. From what I could see of the mess of compact electronics, circuitry, and inactive gyroscopes, it had been built with redundant systems just for this type of shutdown. The problem was some asshole had put a high-caliber bullet through it, piercing both of the hefty blue batteries that powered its systems. Some of the components were a bit charred as well, namely what looked like a stick of RAM. Johnson Nash was observing from a safe distance and sorting his shop's inventory to make sure the convicts hadn't taken anything when they passed through.

"Good old fission batteries," Nash laughed when I waved him over. "Weigh a ton, but if robots are still running on 'em so long after the war, they must be reliable."

"You have any in stock?"

As it turned out, Nash _did_ have a fission battery in stock. That still left the matter of replacing the second battery and RAM stick. The idea to scavenge from the terminal at the Bison Steve Hotel's front desk popped into my head, but was instantly rejected. Then I remembered the terminal at the Sheriff's office. It wasn't working, but the RAM might still be in decent condition. I left the Mojave Express outpost at a jog and entered the Sheriff's office. Someone had retrieved the bodies, but I spoke out of courtesy.

"Mind if I loot your computer? I need some parts from it to fix a robot."

There was no response. Not even the tingle of spiritual presence. After a shrug, I picked up the battered unit and carried it back to the outpost. The standard terminal model in 2281 was a single piece, with a built-in keyboard but no mouse. The screen size was rather small compared to what I was used to, and nobody had heard of a 16:9 resolution. Once I was back in the outpost, the real work began. I'd gone to college for two years for an Associate's Degree in Information Technology, dismantling a computer was nearly second nature to me. Even the unfamiliar model had some basis in the old technologies from 2014. Heck, the only _real _difference I could spot was in the power supply. Instead of having an AC adapter, the power supply was a small casing that contained yet another fission battery. So long as I was careful, I could fix the robot with all of the parts available to me.

Over the course of another _three_ hours, I managed to get the Robot back into decent shape. I replaced the parts and bypassed the parts of the main systems that had been destroyed. Turns out I was still pretty good with a soldering iron. I cleaned and polished the chassis as well, gently tapping out as many dents as I could with a hammer. The antennae and parabolic dish received the same treatment, but I had to be very careful not to cause more damage to those. In the end, the little robot wasn't quite bright and shining, but it was at the same standard I held to all the weapons I'd fixed up. The bumper sticker and License plate were left on to honor the robot's history, and in turn gave me a name for it. Most of the plate's text was damaged or scratched off, but three letters and a symbol remained undamaged.

With a soft whirr, the robot began to hover off of the counter, its antennae and parabola twitching around as scanned its surroundings. I'd examined its internal components and I _still_ wasn't sure how it managed to float like that. My best guess was that it has something to do with the numerous short metal tubes sticking out of its underside. After a moment, the robot turned its grill towards me and let out a few chattering beeps. A surge of childlike joy burst through my being. I had my own R2-D2! Unable to restrain myself, I pounced on the robot and hugged it, holding the little guy to my chest. Johnson just raised an eyebrow, and I gave him a playful glare.

"Don't judge me. I have a robot."

"I wasn't gonna say a thing," Nash chuckled, returning to his inventory management.

I released my robot and watched it rise back to eye level automatically. Curious, I put one finger on top of the robot and push him downward, then let go. It rose back to eye level again, this time letting out an annoyed beep.

"Right, sorry," I laughed and grinned sheepishly at my new partner. "So, how does the name ED-E sound to you?"

The robot let out a series of beeps that definitely sounded happy. I fiddled around with my Pip-Boy for a moment, going into the 'Connect' option in the data section. It was meant to show any active terminals with wireless capability so the user could download files and issue basic commands. The only listed option was 'Eyebot Duraframe - E' It didn't take more than two sections to connect the dots. ED-E's model classification was an Eyebot, and it was the fifth version made. The connection was password protected, and it didn't feel right to hack into an AI.

"ED-E, do you mind letting me into your wireless connection?" I asked. ED-E let out a questioning beep, and I explained. "I want to have a few backups of your OS and hard drive in case of emergency. I'm also curious about your coding. I used to be a programmer, and I may be able to tweak a few settings to optimize you, enable new functions and so on."

The lock symbol vanished from next to ED-E's connection, and I entered. Two more options were presented to me, 'file access' and 'command menu'. I chose the second one, and was presented with a basic list of functions.

"Do these work with verbal commands as well?" I questioned. An affirmative beep. "Ah. In that case... Companion Protocol: Initiate."

* * *

ED-E hovered behind me, putting his antennae to use and playing Radio New Vegas over his speakers. Yes, I'm using masculine pronouns for ED-E. I was tempted to pronounce his name as 'Edi' in honor of another famous AI, but the little guy got a bit annoyed after the first few times I tried. Without anything else to do, ED-E and I were headed over to the NCR camp to talk with Hayes about getting Primm some proper protection. McMahon was thankfully nowhere in sight, and Jameson gave me a timid wave when I passed him. I returned his wave with one of my own and walked on. For once in the time I'd seen him, Lieutenant Hayes was actually outside of the tent, sitting in an old lawn chair. I just stood there with a small mental disconnect as I saw Hayes _relaxing_ for once.

"Rain, always a pleasure seeing you," Hayes spoke up as I approached. He looked over my shoulder at ED-E, and I could almost hear the question.

"He's my new scout," I offered, "Mr. Nash had him in his shop, let me fix him up."

"Huh. You seem to be multi-talented," Hayes said, scratching his chin. "What do you need?"

"Not much. Primm needs to get some proper protection though. Nash put NCR protection forward as a possibility, and I'm willing to assist with whatever needs to be done to make that happen."

"We know Primm is a great strategic point, and we aren't blind to the needs of the town, but we're barely holding our own against the Powder Gangers," Hayes sighed, leaning forward. "We don't have the guns or the personnel needed to carry out our mission, much less take on defending this town as well. That's not to belittle the work you've already done."

"Just what is going on around here?" I questioned, "I've been taking out the Powder Gangers because they're criminals and murderers, but I don't know much more about the situation than that."

"A little while ago a bunch of convicts staged a coup at the NCRCF. That's NCR Correctional Facility. They killed the guards that couldn't escape, and have been ransacking the area ever since. The convicts call themselves 'Powder Gangers' because they've taken to using the explosives meant to clear boulders as weapons. They got organized faster than expected, except for the splinter group in Primm you killed off."

"With three of your Privates under par, it can't be easy to make much progress against them," I commented taking a seat in another lawn chair set up by Hayes.

"You have no idea. The convicts are better armed and organized than our intel suggested. I'm trying to get some reinforcements here, maybe some guns with some firepower, but... shit... things are just going slow."

"Wait... those AR15's you guys carry aren't fully automatic?" I wondered.

"AR15? We just call them Service Rifles," Hayes shrugged, "And no, they're only Semi-Automatic, but I've seen some veteran troopers pull the trigger fast enough that you couldn't tell the difference."

"Yep. I'm starting to understand your problem. Alright, I don't have anything better to do. Who do I need to talk to for you guys to get some support?"

"Major Knight at the Mojave Outpost. I'll mark its location on your Pip-Boy," Major Knight leaned over and I helpfully flipped over to the 'world map' for him. He tagged a location more south than west, and I whistled at the distance.

"That's definitely a long trip," I said, switching to the status screen and standing. "I'll make it to the outpost tonight and hopefully return with your troop support in the morning."

"It feels wrong to rely on you for this, but I know better by now than to try and talk you out of it," Hayes sighed, standing and offering his hand. I didn't hesitate in taking it and giving a firm shake. With that finished, I departed, giving a final wave over my shoulder. I'd taken my backpack with me when I left Nash's store, so there was no need to stay in Primm any longer. I looped my way back to the main guard post at the makeshift bridge to Primm's west side, then followed the small ledge south, following the wall. At last, I crossed onto the broken road and began walking the gray path to parts unknown. Okay, maybe I was being a little dramatic. It's hard to make walking down a road after the apocalypse sound exciting. After Primm, all there really was to see was sand, sand, desert scrub, rocks, and more sand. Oh, hey! There was a billboard, advertising Rita's Cafe. Apparently their pies were out of this world. Of course they were out of this world. Rita's Cafe was likely wiped off the map when the bombs dropped, or the building was taken over by some random group that had an aching desire to consume the spleens of passing travelers.

"Good lord walking is boring," I grumbled aloud to ED-E. My robot buddy chose to ignore me, listening to his radio. I caught something dark moving on the horizon and came to a full stop, raising my binoculars to check it out. Remember what I just said about a random spleen-eating group? I think I invoked Murphy's Law with it. Two unsavory fellows were wandering around in front of what used to be a State Highway Patrol station. The scavenged wrecks of numerous police cars littered the front of the station, blocking my sight. I was at a far enough range that if nothing attacked me from the sides or behind, I could snipe those two and any extras that would show up without risking a bullet.

"ED-E, combat mode. Keep an eye on my sides and rear. We've got hostiles up ahead," I pulled my Varmint Rifle off of my back and toggled its night vision setting off, then went prone and looked through the scope. ED-E played a small burst of music that would have belonged in a Western and distanced himself from me by a meter or so. I followed my standard procedure, finding my target and mentally 'locking on' to them, then giving a three second countdown and pulling the trigger. This worked well for the first bandit. It went without a hitch. Then, much to my annoyance, the other one saw his fallen friend's body and ran around the side of the building.

"ED-E, drop to ground level. Enemy's been alerted and we don't want them to see us," I said, cycling my rifle's bolt. ED-E let out an affirmative beep, and the whirring from his systems decreased. Four more bandits came out from behind the building, slowly scanning the area around them and brandishing various guns. These ones were better equipped than the Powder Gangers had been, using Winchester rifles or bulky pistols I didn't recognize. One was even dressed in a suit of armor with metal plates covering the vitals. I assumed that one to be the leader, since she had the best gear of the bunch, and lined up my shot. _Three... Two... One..._ I pulled the trigger and braced against the recoil, still sighting through the scope. Pow! Right in the kisser! The leader crumbled like a sack of potatoes, and her underlings scrambled for cover. ED-E let out a burst of music again, pulling my attention away from the battle ahead.

I caught a flash of diseased, rotting flesh, the stench of decay nearly making me vomit on the spot. Then, a loud '_Pew!'_ and the crackle of electrical discharge. Whatever had been approaching glowed a vicious red, then dissolved into a pile of foul-smelling ash. Unfortunately that little side-encounter gave the bandits enough time to regroup and start charging down the road at us, firing their weapons without any real accuracy. It made me wonder if criminals all went to the Stormtrooper Academy in their younger years. I rose from my crouch and slung my Varmint Rifle over my shoulder, then reached a little to the left and grabbed the stock of the Sheriff's Winchester. My other hand reached into the pouch carrying my .357 rounds, snatching up a handful. With the bullets whizzing around me like deadly wasps, I began running over to the side of the road, where I'd spotted a decent-sized rock I could use for cover.

ED-E was apparently fitted with a laser blaster, and was spewing red beams at the enemy with little success. His targeting code probably wasn't optimized for long-distance encounters, which was something I'd eventually have to correct. I slotted the cartridges into the loading gate on the side of the Winchester's receiver and worked its lever once to load a round to the chamber. I roughly aimed through my gun's peep sight and pulled the trigger. There was no time for fancy marksmanship here, and my general lack of practice with the Winchester caused the shot to go wide. A bullet grazed the leather on my left leg, tearing a small cut in my thigh. I gritted my teeth against the stinging pain and worked the lever again, aimed, and fired once more. Another missed shot. The bandits were closing in now, and I was getting more and more frustrated, more and more angry. I took more grazes on my left arm and cheek, but managed to drop one of the bandits in turn with a shot through his heart. On my next attempt to shoot, the Winchester just clicked. I had emptied its tube on almost all missed shots. I dropped the rifle in the dust and reached down to my hip, a feral snarl rising in my throat.

The two remaining bandits were shouting and cheering, asking me if I 'liked the sight of my own blood'. To be truthful, I did not. Not one bit. Something guided my hand away from my stainless Hi-Power and to Joe Cobb's revolver. I pulled it from the holster, slapping the hammer into full-cock with my free hand on the way out. I dodged and weaved forward, bringing the confrontation into point blank range. I saw my victim's eyes widen in fear just before I shoved the revolver under his chin and pulled the trigger. Blood and gore splattered all over, splashing my face and drenching the sand in red. I heard a strangled gasp and whirled on the last bandit, who seemed frozen in place, staring at me wide-eyed. The empty magazine of his pistol was on the ground, and he had no other weapons. He tried so desperately to run, leaving a thin stream of dampness in his wake. He wasn't fast enough. I burst into a full sprint and chased down the man, ripping my knife out of its sheath and plunging it into his spine. I rolled over him, releasing my knife, and cocked the hammer on Joe Cobb's revolver one more time.

One last gunshot rang out, and ED-E flew over to me, letting out a worried whistle. I just shook my head, sighed, and reached into my medical bag for a roll of bandages.

"I'll be alright ED-E. Do you mind grabbing the loot while I take care of this? Weapons ammo, and stimpaks are priority," I said, unslinging my backpack and hanging it on the barrel of ED-E's laser pistol. "Put them in there... I'll... I'll look them over later."

I was breathing heavily from the stress. The conflict itself hadn't taken too much out of me, but losing myself to my darker instincts caused a whole different kind of strain. I cleaned my cuts with a few dabs of alcohol, a hiss escaping my lips at the burning pain. I wrapped each area tightly with a length of cloth and duct taped them. I made a mini band-aid with duct tape and a small square of cloth and used that to cover the injury on my cheek. Let me tell you, pulling that off later would _not_ be fun. With my injuries dressed and my medical bag packed once more, I rose to my feet, pausing only to retrieve my knife from the dead bandit. I flicked the blood off of the blade, promising myself that I would clean it more thoroughly when time allowed. My emotions were generally drained after that encounter, and I hadn't even gone into the Highway Patrol Station yet. Deciding that it was better to wait until I was at 100%, I rested until ED-E returned with my backpack, which had a second Winchester hanging off of it. I pulled the bag off of ED-E's frame and slung it back over my shoulder. My robot buddy gave another whistle of worry, but I faked a smile and started walking again. The crows and predators of the Mojave could sort out the bandits' remains. I didn't want to look at them. The very thought of the one I'd used Cobb's revolver on...

Feeling my bile rise, I dashed to the side of the road and vomited, emptying my stomach of everything until there was naught but acid. Wiping my mouth gave me an excellent view of the red smear on my hand, bringing about a whole new round of retching. I tried to continue down the road, but I only made it two steps before I fell on my hands and knees. Feeling a new surge of frustration, I slammed my fist down onto the asphalt, feeling tears begin to run down my cheeks unbidden. A new number seared its way into my mind, and I wrote it on the ground in a mixture of blood from my knuckles and the blood from my victims.

'_27_'.

* * *

**ENDING NOTES:** Whew, got a little emotional at the end there. Yeah, I'm just gonna end the chapter and try to calm myself down after writing it. When I write from first person, I really _do_ get into character mentally as much as possible. That tends to have some nasty effects on my mind and heart when I wrap it up or take a break. Anyways, Lucky had been obtained early due to sheer force of stubbornness, and Rain got a nifty new 9mm out of the deal as well. It's pretty much compensation since Rain won't actually be using Lucky. Also, I'm sorry if I'm turning anyone off with the supernatural activity. I respect each of your personal beliefs on matters of faith and otherwise, but my earliest memory was of two ghosts standing over my crib glowing blue. On that note, I leave you.

_Until next time, Everyone!_


	4. Entry 004

**Disclaimer: Fallout is owned by Bethesda**

**Review Replies:**

**shadowelf144**: As always, your support is appreciated.

**Assozat**: Mods make a lot of things needlessly complicated... but better.

**AgoTheTiny**: That's part of why I'm reviewing every OC submitted with a critical eye. Then there's the matter of placement and how long those specific OC's will be in the spotlight. Characters like Assozat's Zach seem to be more of the type that show up once, like a Mysterious Stranger visit, then they're off doing their own thing again.

**004**

* * *

"_Howdy folks, it's Mr. New Vegas, and I have a good feeling about all of you listening. More news for you. NCR Correctional Facility is under prisoner control following a successful riot. Locals should avoid anyone who looks like they've done time. Mojave, mo' problems. Am I right? In New Vegas, we know the pain that numbers can bring us. Well so does Guy Mitchell, whose got Heartaches by the Number."_

Night had fallen by the time I trudged my way into the Mojave Outpost. The remainder of the trip had been boring once I managed to pull myself back together. ED-E had gone above and beyond the call of being a robot buddy, steering me away from potential conflicts with two new brands of mutated wildlife. Heck, I didn't even get to see any of them before he zapped the critters into piles of ash. The last hill to reach the outpost had been torture for me. Seeing all of the rusted wrecked vehicles, most with ancient skeletons inside their cabs, really made it hit just how far out of my depth I was. In towns like Goodsprings and Primm I could forget for a moment that I was living after the fall of true civilization. All beyond the top of that hill was hidden by a pair of statues constructed from scrap metal. They depicted two men shaking hands, one in a leather duster and gas mask, the other dressed in a park ranger's hat and some sort of combat armor.

"_I am a monument to all of your sins..."_

ED-E beeped curiously, probably worried I was about to experience another mental breakdown. I just smiled at him and shook my head, moving on. The Mojave Outpost used to be a toll station for the highway, but now it was segregated into a pair of very different sections. The south side was a small military encampment, made using sandbags, metal fencing, and the pre-existing buildings from the station. A pale woman was posted at the top of the nearest building to the road, speaking into the radio attached to the left side of her leather vest. Her entire set of clothes had a cowboy vibe to them, and the Winchester on her back didn't help that assessment any. For some reason, she was wearing sunglasses even though the sun had gone down. My mind flashed to the possibility that vampirism had developed as a mutation in the wastes, but I dismissed it almost immediately.

To the north side of the outpost was a series of fenced areas. Some held two-headed cows that looked _really_ sickly with their red skin and tumor-ridden udders. Most of those were bearing heavy packs laden with assorted goods. Other sections of that little compund had mattresses, and quite a few wastelanders sleeping on them. _I think I just found the traders Goodsprings was missing,_ I thought. From the looks of it the NCR was keeping them all at the Outpost, but _why?_ ED-E let out a warning burst of music, pulling me out of my thoughts. A man in the typical NCR beige uniform ran at full tilt out of the NCR side, coming to a stop at arm's length from me. I must have looked a sight, caked in drying blood and dirt from two days without a bath. The bandages probably didn't help matters either.

"Holy hell, son. You look like you've been in a fight with a Deathclaw!" The man spoke in a gruff voice that fitted his dark complexion and tough beard.

"It isn't mine," I replied. I then looked down at the bandage wrapped around my knuckles and felt the need to correct that statement. "Most of it, anyhow."

"Right... let's just get you to the barracks. There's probably a spare bunk you can use," The bearded man's voice took on a fake comforting tone, trying to get me to comply without trouble.

"I'm a messenger sent by 1st Company stationed at Primm," I stated, "I need to speak to Major Knight as soon as possible."

"Hayes' unit? Why would they send a civvie?"

"I volunteered."

"Bullshit. What's Hayes paying you for it?" The bearded man demanded.

"Everyone in this wasteland seems to _want_ something," I sighed, "Never can a man simply help because it's the right thing to do. It always has to be about tactical importance, resources, or 'favors'."

"With an attitude like that, you won't last long."

I felt a surge of the darker instincts, and gave the bearded man a predatory smile. He shuddered and took a step back, hand going to the bulky gray pistol on his hip.

"I've survived twenty-seven men who thought I was wrong. I'll survive a lot more before my way is proven wrong."

Rolling my eyes at how easily these 'soldiers' succumbed to fear, I walked past the man and further into the Outpost, heading to the NCR side. I could feel the stares of every trooper on guard duty watching me, all the way to the nearest set of double doors. Nobody bothered to tell me where Major Knight was, so I had to guess. I pushed my way through the double doors and found myself standing before a long counter covered in scattered papers with a Ham Radio to the far end. The pale man behind the counter was dressed in the standard NCR Trooper uniform, but had a beret like Hayes'. He was writing something in a leather-bound notebook, and didn't pay any attention to me even as the others in the makeshift office building let out gasps or stared. ED-E seemed to cringe a little at so much attention, hovering closer to my shoulder and lowering the volume of his radio.

Waiting out of politeness, I examined the posters pasted next to the mail sorter. They reminded me of some of the old WWII propaganda posters. One showed a miniaturized NCR Soldier with the caption 'NCR Trooper... YOU bring DEMOCRACY to this land.' Another showed a man in a gas mask, much like the one on the monument outside, and had a caption reading 'People of New Vegas... This is your FRIEND! He fights for your FREEDOM!' and a little text box reading 'Ranger' next to the mask. The last one didn't really make sense to me, but threatened some group called the Legion.

The man scribbling in the logbook stopped and finally seemed to notice me, then looked up from his book and flinched backwards into the mail sorter. I just deadpanned at him, waiting for the pale man to recover. After straightening back up, he cleared his throat and asked in a near-monotone.

"Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or...?"

"Messenger," I replied. He nodded and made a note of it in his book.

"Just need something for the log book, keeping tabs on traffic through the Outpost... although mostly just in, not out these days. If you're in need of medical attention, well, you're out of luck. We don't really have a medic on staff here. If you're looking for the commanding officer, he's in the back. Although... he's got a lot on his plate, so if you speak with him... keep it short. Also, you need any gear checked, we can get you up and running again... once you fill out the work orders, and sign for the parts, of course."

"Are you Major Knight?" I asked, leaning forward and resting my hands on the counter.

"Yes. Yes I am. Do you need something?"

"Not me, but Hayes is undermanned and is requesting additional support."

Hayes frowned and seemed to hate what he had to say.

"I'd like to help - but we can't spare any more units. We have to maintain a minimum headcount at the Outpost, orders from the West."

"By providing additional support to Hayes, the NCR will also be gaining Primm as a protectorate, giving you another supply line to the north," I made the offer and hated every second of it. I'd much rather appeal to the man's sense of honor and morality, but that didn't seem to work as well as it needed to on the NCR. "If you _don't_ assist Hayes, the 1st Company won't be able to hold off the Powder Gangers for much longer."

"I see the wisdom in that, but we can't..." I cut off Knight with my darkest glare.

"I had a feeling that your superiors sent Hayes on a suicide mission. Thanks for providing me with confirmation," My voice was dropping into the growl range again, and murmurs were beginning to rise in the office. For the killing blow, I turned on my heel and opened the door, shooting one last line Knight's way. "I'll be sure to pass on that detail. Good day to you, Major Knight."

Knight choked on air and tried to formulate a valid response. I couldn't help but feel a little smug at how easily I'd managed to get under his skin.

"Now hold on just a damn minute-!"

The sound of the door closing cut him off. I was starting to see the type of men the NCR enlisted, their priorities and morals. It made me wonder whether they were worth the trouble of helping. Still, something made me doubt this 'Legion' or the Powder Gangers were a better alternative. ED-E whistled softly, probably still worried by my odd behavior. I reached up and gave my robot buddy a pat on the chassis and a reassuring smile.

"Well, ED-E, plans for staying the night here are screwed," I sighed as we walked past the monument, "Message delivered, request denied, and all persuasion attempts have failed. Unless if that last one gets Knight ticked off enough to prove me wrong, of course."

I examined my Pip-Boy map and looked over the areas I'd flagged on my way to the Outpost. The Nipton Road Rest Stop was the closest and most likely place I could spend the night. So long as nothing had set up in the little convenience store there, it would do fine. I sent the Coordinates to ED-E, who beeped negatively. That's when I remembered the numerous Radscorpions we'd had to sneak around. I paused by a rusting sixteen-wheeler and leaned against it, trying to think of an alternative. Unless if ED-E and I magically gained the ability to teleport, there was no making it back to guaranteed safety before I passed out from exhaustion. My robot buddy let out a curious beep and flew around the back of the truck. I followed him and found ED-E hovering over no less than _six_ motorcycles, all of the same design I'd seen in front of the Prospector Saloon. Their solid frames were built of sturdy greenish metal, and not a one had any visible rust.

"Okay, that's fine and good," I commented to ED-E, "But without fuel, or the keys, they're useless to us. It's probably why the NCR hasn't scavenged them."

My Pip-Boy dinged like an oven, prompting me to look down at it. Over in the data section, I saw a file had been downloaded automatically. Opening it, I found a list of specs for the 'Honda F600M'. One detail was bolded, italicized, and underlined. The gas tank an alternative fuel source. The motorcycle primarily ran on a shielded internal nuclear reactor. ED-E hovered over to me with a keyring looped on his blaster's barrel and let out a smug beep. With my robot buddy's help, I got one of the motorcycles out of the truck and properly settled on the road. I wasn't too sure about riding a motorcycle, but so long as I didn't take any sharp turns or accelerate out of control, I'd be fine. Once the motorcycle was on the road and ready, I straddled the seat, which hadn't degraded at all in its exposure to the elements, and put the keys in its ignition.

The moment of truth came, and I turned the key. The motorcycle stuttered a little bit, so I tried again. That time, a rumbling roar emitted from the engine, startling a flock of crows nearby.

My squee was lost to the noise and wind.

* * *

For never riding a motorcycle before, I was proud to say that I had picked it up like a pro. ED-E was keeping up as well, having redirected power from his weapon systems to his hover jets to improve his speed. Just being able to do 45 miles per hour on the highway was a liberating experience, with Primm's water tower visible in the powerful headlights of my new favorite vehicle. I drove down into Primm, easing off the throttle so I coasted down the hill. I came to a complete stop just outside of the Mojave Express Outpost and cut the engine. The motorcycle rode low enough that all it took to keep it in place was to turn the front wheel and let the bike lean slightly. The lights in the Mojave Express turned on, and a sleepy-looking Nash stepped out, rubbing his eyes and brandishing a revolver. Upon seeing me, the old man let out a small gasp and reached into his pocket for a handy stimpak.

"Nash! I'm fine!" I waved him off, "Ran into some trouble near the highway patrol station and things got messy. I have this medical bag for a reason, you know."

ED-E let out a confirming beep, just to feel like he was part of the conversation.

"If you're sure," Johnson said. "What brings you by this late, though? Came to show off another new toy?"

We both chuckled at that remark, me mainly because it was _true_. I'd wanted to show off just a bit before I made my way back up to Goodsprings. I'd also stopped to see if Nash had some goggles or a helmet.

"Six of these are in a truck down by the Mojave Outpost. ED-E got the keys for this one, and so far I haven't found any problems with it. Still a bit wary that I'm effectively riding a nuke, but this'll cut down my travel time by a _lot_," I patted my new mode of transportation and finally asked my proper question. "Do you have any goggles in good condition I could buy? Getting sand in my eyes at high speed is not something I want to experience."

Mr. Nash soon returned with my new eyewear, a set slightly scratched glass lenses set in a padded metal frame, with an adjustable leather strap to hold them on. I put them on, adjusted the strap, and turned the ignition on my motorcycle once again. It was time to give Lieutenant Hayes the bad news. I drove up the hill and made a U-turn to pass under the makeshift bridge. I had to take that little bit slow, but the noise gathered the attention of 1st Company. Hayes met me at the northern sentry post and let me make the first move. The worry was clear in his eyes though.

"I made it to the Mojave Outpost," I said, not even bothering to dismount. "There's standing orders to maintain a minimum headcount there. I did all I could to change his mind, but it's iffy. All I can tell you is wait a day and see what happens."

Hayes' shoulders slouched, I could tell he wasn't taking the news well. Seeing a good man, a strong man like him on the verge of defeat made my blood boil. What was worse was that I had carried the message.

"Thank you for trying, Rain," Hayes said, "I know you went through a lot to see this through."

"Yeah... I'll be back some time tomorrow. Need to rest and clean myself up, get my head back together after these last few days. Anything major comes up, I'll have my Pip-Boy tuned to frequency 141.8. Don't hesitate to call."

Hayes nodded silently. I tuned to the frequency right there to prove my word and also saved it as a preset labelled 'NCR Support' for the sake of convenience. I'd need to look into finding or making a headset to turn that into a two-way transmission, but for the short term it would work out well enough. With one final farewell to 1st Company's leader, I started up the engine again and rode north. The remaining ride to Goodsprings was uneventful, save for a small bump when I accidentally ran over a radroach. I was treated to a third perspective on the Powder Ganger camp and Jean Sky Diving thanks to my headlights, their harsh light making a sharp contrast with the shadows just beyond. In less than two minutes I pulled up in front of the Prospector Saloon, stifling a laugh when I saw good old Easy Pete sleeping in his favorite chair on the front porch. I had all of two seconds to dismount the bike before a furry shape burst out of the saloon and tackled me, whining softly and licking at the blood on my face. I just scratched behind her ears and hugged the husky to my chest.

ED-E was smart enough to know not to go into combat mode, but still hovered nearby, seeming a bit awkward in the old-fashioned town.

"Cheyenne? Cheyenne!" Sunny's voice called from inside the saloon, and she soon burst out with rifle in hand, ready to pump anything that threatened Goodsprings full of lead.

"Hey Sunny," I said, grinning at her, "What'd I miss?"

"Rain?! What the hell? You're covered in blood!" Sunny practically dragged me up to my feet by the arm and began pulling me in the direction of Doc Mitchell's. My protests were drowned out by Cheyenne's whines and her mistress's fussing. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the patient bed in Mitchell's medical room, deadpanning at a pacing Sunny, who was looking a little _too much_ like a mother hen at that moment. Despite being roughly awoken, Doc was good-natured about our reunion and kept a cool head while he examined my dressings.

"Well, no sign of infection. They'll be healed up in a few days at most," The doctor said, smiling.

"See, Sunny? Nothing to worry about," I shot in her direction.

"Nothing to worry about?!" Sunny screeched, making every other living being in the room wince at her volume and pitch. "That's it, mister. Starting tomorrow, you're getting a crash course on Wasteland Survival!"

She stormed out of Doc's home, and after a moment of just staring at where she'd been, Cheyenne padded off behind her.

"It couldn't hurt none," Doc chimed in once they were gone. "Considering your _unique_ origins, learning how things work in these parts might do you some good."

"It was supposed to be my relaxation day," I grumbled, crossing my arms and looking away. I blinked in surprise as I saw a gun sitting on top of a Sunset Sarsaparilla crate next to Doc's counter. "Is that an old M3 Submachine gun?"

"No idea, you tell me," Mitchell laughed, "Thing's broken and I don't know where to begin to get it in working order. Take it with you, maybe you'll find some way to get it firing again."

We said our farewells and I walked south towards Victor's shack with yet another weapon to my name. It _did_ look like one of the WWII Era Grease Guns though, with a bronze-colored frame and skeletal barrel protruding from the front of the gun was a bit shorter than the original model, making me wonder if someone else had already customized the weapon to some extent. I doubted I'd have any use for the M3 myself, so I was content to just repair it, clean it up, and sell it off to Chet. I noticed that Victor wasn't at his shack, which was probably for the best considering his role in the events leading to Courier Six's death. By and large I was ready to crash for the night, only spending enough time to get the blood off in the tub before collapsing into bed.

Just before I succumbed to sleep, I heard a voice hiss into my ear, its tone making my skin crawl.

"_Twenty-seven..._"

Upon waking up the very next morning, my immediate thought and statement aloud was as follows.

"Thank you for reminding me, disembodied asshole."

ED-E let out a surprised beep and almost fell out of the air, but managed to catch himself in time. I rolled over in bed and rubbed the crustyness out of my eyes, not particularly caring that I was only in my briefs. Ugh, getting the blood stains out of my armor and clothes were going to be a serious pain in the ass. The real problem was I didn't even have a change of- _hello._ Someone had visited the shack while I slept, leaving a neatly folded set of clothing on top of the bookshelves. Crawling off the mattress, I grabbed the bundle and slowly unfolded it. The base layer consisted of a medium blue jumpsuit with a band of yellow tracing the zipper and encircling the high collar. On the lapel and back, someone had stitched the number '13' in yellow. A black T-shirt was also included, along with black leather bracers and boots. The final piece was some sort of weird segmented metal belt, but I didn't even consider wearing it. All of my leather items were easily cleaned by a bit of soap and cold water, allowing me to use my preferred belt with all of the useful ammunition pouches.

_That reminds me,_ I thought, looking over the four weapons I consistently carried on that belt. All of them had some measure of blood on them. I checked my Pip-Boy's clock. 7:30AM, more than enough time to get some cleaning work done on them before Sunny dragged me kicking and screaming out of Victor's shack. The Sheriff's Winchester and my Varmint Rifle could use some work while I was at it...

Only a few moments later, Sunny kicked the door in and glared at the mattress as if she expected me to still be sleeping. ED-E let out an annoyed beep and hovered over to her, the barrel of his blaster splitting apart and crackling with purple electricity like a taser.

"Oh, you're up," She said, looking a bit nervous around my robot buddy. "Well... come on, meet me at the back of the saloon."

Sunny Smiles disappeared. For a moment, I contemplated just why I was entertaining her, but that question was utterly lost when Cheyenne tackled me out of the chair I was using and began licking my face. Once I'd satisfied the husky with a few ear scratches, and a belly rub for good measure, I grabbed my Varmint Rifle and wandered out for yet another day in the Mojave Wasteland.

* * *

I just stared at the Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles Sunny had set up on the fence behind the Prospector Saloon. My gaze turned to the troublesome auburn-haired woman, who just gestured at the bottles. She was forcing me to use an unmodified Varmint Rifle for the exercise, and as I looked the gun over, I noticed a small symbol carved into the shoulder stock '雨'. It was the Kanji symbol for 'rain', something I added to all of the guns I worked on extensively, whether I intended to sell them or not. Sunny got the rifle from Chet, and I deadpanned at her once more for good measure. Fine, if she wanted me to shoot the bottles, I'd shoot the damn bottles. That didn't mean I couldn't turn it into something useful. I shot the first right through its label, and heard Sunny begin to say something. A smirk came to my lips, and I cycled the bolt, quick-sighted, and fired again. Another hit. Again, one more bottle down. Five hits at point blank range were nothing for me, but working the bolt with decent speed and acquiring new targets was something I needed the practice on. I thumbed the magazine release and grabbed a spare from my pouch, fully ready to take down the line.

"Okay, okay! You made your point!" Sunny laughed, "Tell you what. I gotta go chase geckos away from our water supply anyway. Darn critters are attracted to it. Let's make that some live practice."

"Wouldn't it be better to just scare them away? Maybe put down some type of repellent?" I asked, not wanting to kill the adorable but tasty critters unless it was absolutely necessary. Sunny facepalmed with enough force that it temporarily caused time to freeze for a split second in the wake of its sound.

"I just can't get you some times, Rain. You'll kill a man without trouble, but you're squeamish about Geckos?"

"I'm not _squeamish_," I grumbled, getting annoyed that I had to try explaining one of my new abilities. "Look, just lead the way and hopefully a demonstration will explain just why I'm hesitant to kill any animals."

"Before we go, be sure to collect your brass," Sunny admonished, "5.56 and 9mm ammo is pretty common, but you want to be in the habit for when caps are short, or you have a rarer caliber."

"Yeah, certain situations kept me from doing that before now, or I just forgot," I sighed, tossing the marked Varmint Rifle to her and bending down to pick up the empty casings. They were still pretty hot to the touch, but not enough that I burnt my fingertips. "ED-E, modify the loot gathering protocol to include bullet casings in the priority."

Sunny raised an eyebrow and looked at the battered Eyebot, then back to me.

"Where'd you get the flying hunk of metal anyhow?" She questioned, "Or that motorcycle, while we're on the subject."

"A lot has happened while I was gone," I replied, closing my eyes and trying to stop the events from replaying in my head, "Some good, but more bad."

"If it's having that kind of effect on you, then you must not be from around here." I gave a dry chuckle at that statement.

"Not even close."

Sunny began guiding us south along the road, only to leave it when it began to curve towards Jean Sky Diving. The area was rocky, with large protrusions from the dirt that formed compact canyons and valleys. Not much grew in that stretch of land but hardy desert scrub. Until we rounded a small cliff and came upon the first of Goodsprings' wells. Small patches of grass grew around the pair of water troughs and piping, but it wasn't quite so green and healthy as I'd hoped. A few warbling cries filled the air, and a few of the blueish bipedal lizards waddle into view. With a smile on my lips, I left my companions and began walking towards them, ignoring Sunny's frantic whispers for me to get back behind cover. Once the Geckos took notice of me, they all cocked their heads to the side in confusion, but made no move to flee or attack.

"Hey there," I said in a gentle, friendly voice. The largest of the Gecko trio let out a happy squeak and waved at me, nearly stopping my heart from sheer _d'aww_. I made my way to the trio slowly, keeping my stance and posture as nonthreatening as possible. My weird abilities with animals made them neutral to me at the least, and I had to get them friendly to me from there. The largest gecko waddled over, meeting me in the middle, and bumped me with his snout, then blinked and took a step back, flopping down on his rump. _Moment of truth_. I reached out with painstaking slowness and rested my hand on his head, running it over the smooth scales. Faint ideas and concepts began to filter through my mind as I continued to pet the Gecko. My breathing slowed and my vision blurred as the details passed between us, the other Geckos moving in to join in the trancelike state.

I wasn't sure how much time passed when the moment ended and I was snapped back to my proper senses. A ripple seemed to work its way through all of us, and the Geckos nuzzled me with their rounded snouts before wandering off. My mind was taking a bit to wake back up, and I didn't even hear Sunny move until she was kneeling right next to me.

"Okay, just what in the _hell_ was that?" She demanded. "Geckos don't let most folks within ten feet unless they're going to bite. Then you all got so still it was like you'd died on the spot."

"I knew something was weird about how animals were responding to me," I replied, "Cheyenne was one of the first clues, how friendly she was when you called her a trained attack dog. Then when I was walking to Primm for the first time, a big hunter gecko was watching me from the top of a nearby cliff, giving me that little head tilt. Then it waved at me and ran off. Just now, when I was touching those Geckos, I could feel their minds and instincts at work. It's really amazing, Sunny. In a few millennia, so long as Geckos aren't hunted to extinction, they'll grow and evolve enough to become Earth's second natural sapient species. The... the _spark_ is already there, and I think contact with me, exchanging information and ideas with me, may have sped up the process a bit."

"Wow, I think touching that thing scrambled your brains. Gecko people. Pfft." Sunny snorted, "At least they're gone, and we didn't need to fire a single shot. Maybe we should just call it an early day."

"Right... well, they shouldn't be nearly as hostile towards the people of Goodsprings anymore. Random travelers might still have some problems, but only if they act aggressively in turn. Pretty much, if a Gecko waves to you, it's friendly. Otherwise, fair game and do what you will," I established, getting off my rear and dusting off the back of my jumpsuit.

"If you say so," Sunny narrowed her eyes, "I'm going to keep a good grip on my rifle just in case, though, and if I hear of any more incidents..."

"Do what you feel you must," I conceded, "But don't act cruelly, or start any unnecessary vendettas. Hunting is fine, it's a natural part of the world's order. Just don't go on a killing spree just for the sake of it, and I won't have any problems."

"Yeah, we _really_ should get you back to town," My auburn-haired companion muttered. She then began to speak in a sickeningly sweet tone, the type reserved for unruly children. "Come on Rain, let's go take a visit to the nice doctor... I'm sure if you're good he'll give you a lollipop!"

"In the words of a greater man than I..." I replied, putting an emotionless mask over my face. "I should go."

I walked back towards Goodsprings, completely ignoring the confused looks on both Cheyenne and her mistress. My encounter with the Geckos had left me a little loopy, but I was more excited than anything. I had developed a psychic ability! Admittedly a low-tier one, but it was still pretty freaking cool. It also made me feel a little less manly, because the main groups of people who communed with animals in most stories were either pansy druids, a Disney Princess, or had a butterfly tattooed on their rear. Victor still wasn't at his shack when I got there, but I wasn't worried. The cowboy robot would turn back up eventually, and we could finally clear the air about Courier Six.

My promise to her came rushing back, and I left Victor's shack in a dampened mood. I climbed up the hill to the cemetery, ED-E hovering silently behind me. Six's presence in the graveyard was much _happier_ this time around. It didn't feel like I was being punched every time I took a step, and she didn't constantly show me an empty pit.

"I'm back, Six," I said to the spirit. "Kept my promise after all. Sorry I didn't come see you last night..."

Staring down at the grave, I felt my throat tighten up and a tear begin rolling down my cheek.

"None of this was supposed to happen, Six. I'm not meant to be in this wasteland, and it's beginning to show. I'm doing my best, trying to hold on to my morals and beliefs, but _it's just not enough_..."

For a while I just sat in front of Six's grave, crying my heart out. Someone gently wrapped their arms around me from behind and pulled me into a much-needed hug. Feelings of understanding and acceptance filled me. The moment only ended when my Pip-Boy crackled with static and Hayes' voice spoke through it in a much happier tone than I'd heard from him before.

"This is Lieutenant Hayes of the New California Republic Army 5th Battalion, 1st Company. Rain, if you're listening: the gambit was a success. I repeat, the gambit was a success. Primm is now under NCR protection."

* * *

**Author Notes:** Yes, the chapters are getting shorter. That's not your imagination. I'm doing my best to keep them at an acceptable length, but I had to rush this before leaving for school. As such, it's a rougher copy than normal, and I'll be correcting it once I have time.

Edit: Rough spellcheck completed. Still debating on whether to lengthen the chapter with another section or not.

Secondary Edit: Continuity error fixed.

_Until next time, Everyone!_


	5. Entry 005

**Disclaimer: Fallout is owned by Bethesda**

**Review Replies:**

**Assozat**: Retextures, added radio stations and the like are fine in my eyes. But when you start adding overpowered equipment, boosting stat limits and so on, that's where things get a bit bad. As to making my own mods... Well, I did at one point have a set of rebalanced NCR Ranger armor, cowboy hat, and deactivated explosive collar I called the 'Justifier set'. Huh... I may have to find a way to reintegrate that, or at least the character who wore it, into the story.

**shadowelf144: **Thanks for the positive reviews as always.

**005**

* * *

"_Ladies and gentlemen, you're listening to me, Mr. New Vegas, and you look extraordinarily beautiful right now. I've got news for you. Primm formally sworn in a new sheriff today. RNV reporters were on hand to hear the new sheriff address the crowd. 'People of Primm, the NCR wishes to inform you that you are under our jurisdiction now. From now on you will be living by our rules.' The news has been brought to you by the Vikki and Vance Casino. Vikki and Vance: be our partners in crime. Ya'know sometimes the journey beats the destination, and especially when your spurs go Jingle, Jangle, Jingle and you meet some nice gals along the way."_

After the last few days I'd had, it was safe to say that a few _expectations _had formed. All of those expectations were shattered when my fifth day in the Mojave turned out to be pretty normal. Or, at least, as normal as a post-apocalyptic wasteland could be. The town had reached a unanimous decision that Victor's shack would now be my permanent residence in the town, and I was free to do with it whatever I liked since the robot had rolled off into parts unknown. It was a touching gesture, and Trudy got a big tearful hug from me when she delivered the news. Goodsprings had accepted me as one of her own, and had given me a place I could feel comfortable with calling home.

With new determination, I set about cleaning and reorganizing my property. God, it felt amazing to be able to say that. _My property._ It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but what wasn't in the wastes? To clear up some floor space, I tossed out the old ruined sofa and chair, then moved the desk that had been set against the central support beam over into that area. I stacked the smaller bookshelf that had been on that support beam's other side on top of the double-length shelf at the end of the bed, just barely missing the roof with the added height. I removed the ruined toilet and sink from the bathroom and found cheap(but good) replacements for both at Chet's store. He wasn't kidding when he said he had a bit of everything. What he didn't have, he could order in through the Mojave Express for a few more caps, or get it off the trading caravans that were finally passing North now that Primm was back under control. At least the option finally gave me something to spend my spare caps on, and I was providing Mr. Nash with some more business.

The bed received a round of the strongest cleaning chemicals I could douse it with. I had slept two nights on that sucker, and the thought of what I might have picked up from that time disgusted me. In the end I had to leave the front door open to let the shack air out a bit. While that was sorting itself out, I took down the string of Christmas lights hanging off of the shack's front overhang. All of the bulbs were still in good condition, so I took them to Chet to sell them off. There was another matter to take care, and an important one to me. I invited the all of the townsfolk, and used ED-E to send a message to my friends at 1st company and the people of Primm who I personally knew. When ED-E returned with the results of who would and wouldn't be joining the ceremony, I continued my housework. Every inch of that house was scrubbed to pristine condition, even the outer walls. The coffee maker and mugs were cleaned, plates and dinnerware washed and stored away. All of the little bits of random junk were sorted through and either placed on the shelves or tossed outside with other trash. I installed my new sink and toilet, cheering when the latter flushed and turning the former's knobs had their intended effects.

All of this took a surprisingly short time with the passing assistance I received from Sunny, Pete, Trudy and Chet. Each came to help when they had a bit of spare time in their day, although Pete's entire job seemed to be napping on the Prospector Saloon's front porch. With my housework out of the way, I settled down at my desk to clean up all of the guns I'd picked up and begin sorting them into 'sell' and 'store' piles. The Sheriff's Winchester was in the store category. It was a fine rifle, but ultimately had some accuracy issues. Lucky was going to be put up as well, since exposing it to wear, tear and rust would be a real shame. The bulky gray pistols, which I discovered were 'N99 10mm pistols' thanks to ED-E's helpful data and Chet's experience, were all in the sell pile. I was keeping the spare ammunition and magazines in case I ran across a more _unique_ specimen of the 10mm that caught my eye, but those would be staying in one of the US Army ammunition boxes Victor had left behind in the shack. The second Winchester went into the sale pile as well because I preferred my Varmint Rifle for long-range engagements, and I could use my Hi-Power for close to mid-range engagements. Once the bolt was fixed on the M3 SMG, which I discovered had been rechambered in 9mm, that went in the sale pile as well.

I could hear a lot of activity outside, and found that a travelling caravan had arrived from the south with 1st Company in tow, save for McMahon and Sergeant McGee. McMahon had been escorted to Mojave Outpost, and would be sent back to NCR Command for reassignment and court-martial. I spotted Mr. Nash's wrinkled face with them, and he had his grayed wife with him. It irked me a bit that the chance to talk to Ruby never came up while I was in Primm. I also saw Deputy Beagle with them, but the aging man seemed in a sour mood. I'd have to speak to him some time before the ceremony. I set down the sharpened bit of scrap metal I used to engrave the weapons and rose from my seat. I slipped my arms into the sleeves of my jumpsuit and zipped it back up, then headed outside to greet the guests.

Hayes and 1st Company looked in better spirits than I'd seen them over the past few days. It was a shame that McGee couldn't join us, but he'd explained that being installed as the sheriff involved a _lot_ of work to get rolling. Jameson, when not on duty, proved to be a bit of a clutz but had a friendly personality. The entire time I was there he kept dropping hints for me to teach him CQC. I finally shut Jameson up by putting him on the ground with as gentle a shoulder throw I could manage. We all got a laugh when he jumped to his feet and declared it was awesome. Trudy's saloon got a surge of business that day, and everyone generally agreed that her Gecko steak was the best she had tasted.

"Saw a few Geckos on the way here," Nash commented after the meal, "Just sat on the ridge, watching us. One or two actually _waved_. Did you have something to do with it, Rain? That type of oddness seems right up your alley."

Sunny rolled her eyes and groaned, speaking before I had a chance to.

"He's got some weird theory that the Geckos are going to end up becoming people somewhere down the line. They're still little monsters in my eyes."

"Becoming people? What do you mean?" Hayes asked, suddenly interested.

"Okay, for those of you who _aren't_ up to speed, I have a few abilities outside the normal human boundaries," I replied, shooting the huntress an annoyed look "One of them seems to be contact empathy with animals. All it takes is a touch and I can _talk_ to them as it were, and they'll usually listen to my requests. Yesterday Sunny and I went to the wells to try and shoo off the Geckos. They weren't even slightly aggressive towards me, and the Alpha even came up pretty much asking to be petted. Well, I gave him his wish, and felt his mind. All of the prerequisites are there, the spark of intelligence, opposable thumbs, and... a bit of a push in the right direction thanks to knowledge absorbed from me. Give it a few millenia and Geckos will form a primitive society. Faster than that if humanity decides to welcome their new neighbors with open arms."

"But... Geckos are so _tasty_!" Jameson whined, "I'm eating what's going to end up evolving into a person and I feel guilty, but they taste so good!"

"I know!" I lamented with him. It truly was a terrible conundrum.

Afternoon descended into evening, and I had Sunny help me build a fire pit in my 'back yard', lining the edge with cinder blocks. All of Goodsprings had gathered, even Doc Mitchell, using a cane to overcome his bad leg. He'd grown up in a Vault, one of the shelters made to preserve humanity until the world had recovered enough from the bombs to be safely inhabited again. As such Doc was assisting me in the ceremony, dressed in his old Vault 21 jumpsuit. He'd helped perform it when the time came for Vault 21, and probably knew the procedure better than I did. At 7PM sharp, Sunny lit the fire and stepped back. I had been thinking over what I wanted to say all day, and had come up with a rough speech for those gathered.

"We stand gathered here today to send off a piece of the Old World. To some, it may mean more than others. Before the war, there was a ceremony for retiring this symbol with respect and dignity."

I gave a nod to Doc Mitchell and with both regret and respect, I removed the battered American flag from the outer wall of my home and carried it to the gathered crowd. It wasn't the American flag I was used to, having the fifty stars replaced by twelve in a ring around a thirteenth, but it was an American flag nonetheless. Doc Mitchell took the other end and began the thirteen traditional folds, beginning by folding the flag in half, and then into neat triangles. At the end, only the blue field and stars were showing. He snapped a salute, which I returned, then turned to the fire and spoke again.

"Whatever your opinions and beliefs, we all owe our presence here today to those who came before us. This was their symbol, the flag of the United States of America. The red stripes proclaim the fearless courage and integrity of American men and women. The white stripes stand for liberty and equality for all. The blue is the blue of loyalty and faith. When the burning begins, respectfully remove your hats and salute the flag. If you don't feel comfortable doing that, simply place your right hand over your heart. If you know the Pledge of Allegiance, feel free to speak it with me. There will be a moment of silence, in which I ask you to reflect upon what the flag means to you."

I bent down and gently placed the flag in the fire. I took a single step back, snapped to attention, and saluted. There was a flurry of movement as 1st Company did the same led by Hayes, who had removed his beret. I waited for the movement to die down before I began that old pledge, hearing a chorus of at least two other voices joining mine.

"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

As the symbol of America slowly burned away, ED-E played _The Star Spangled Banner,_ the National Anthem. I sang all of the words in my baritone singing voice, and for the first time I was actually on key. When the song ended, we all stood in silence for thirteen minutes, then I lowered my hand to signify the end of the ceremony. My eyes swept over the gathered men and women who had come to honor the Old World, _my_ world. I stopped on a muscular man I didn't recognize. He was an African American with his dark hair in dreadlocks, the lower half of his face obscured by a breathing mask. The man turned and walked away unnoticed, showing the back of his sleeveless leather duster and the American Flag painted there. I didn't bother him. His reasons for being there were his own, much like mine.

* * *

"Rain, this is Hayes." The Lieutenant's voice filtered through the wireless earpiece ED-E built for me. That little blaster of his had a _lot_ more functionality than either of us expected. The headset actually wasn't that complicated, since the earpiece just served to activate functions already programmed into the Pip-Boy's OS when such a device was available. I held the single button on the headset's side and said,

"Hey. What's going on?"

"I've got some work for you, if you're interested."

It had only been a day since the flag ceremony. A Sunday, in fact. Technically the weekend, but what Hayes needed was probably more important than my relaxation.

"Sure, tell me what you need," I replied, leaving my desk to begin gearing up.

"Sloan has been hit by the Powder Gangers. Nobody's injured, but all of the dynamite that's supposed to be used for mining was stolen."

"A retrieval mission?"

"No," Hayes sighed, "We don't know where this group of Powder Gangers has set up their camp, and Sloan is too close to the Correctional Facility to risk you wandering. I need you to pick up the replacement crate of dynamite from Mojave Outpost and deliver it to Chomps Lewis, the foreman. If you have time, see what else you can do to help them out. I should warn you, though... the foreman reported that a pack of Deathclaws has moved in to Quarry Junction nearby. If you encounter one, don't try to engage it. You don't have any weapons or ammo with enough power to take one down."

"Son of a..." Deathclaws were bad news. _Really_ bad news. If they decided to go after the people of Sloan it would be a bloodbath.

"I know the feeling," Hayes agreed. "If it were up to me, I'd have the mining crew extracted and get a squad of Veteran Rangers with Anti-Material rifles down there."

"Right now they don't even have anyone protecting them. What's the point of giving them more dynamite if it's just going to be stolen again?" I asked, "Or if they're going to be torn to shreds by foul beasties?"

"NCR Command is _hoping_ that the Deathclaws can be scared off with the dynamite. I'm not optimistic about it, but this is what they want..."

"Right. I'm not going to put any more pressure on you than I already have. Knight's still pissed at me, isn't he?" I sighed, walking outside to where I'd parked my motorcycle. ED-E deposited the scrap metal he was scavenging from a wrecked house next to the shack and shifted into travel mode, playing a sound clip of a race car engine revving.

"Actually, he's more impressed that you managed to manipulate him so easily," Hayes chuckled. "Are you going to stop in on the way down?"

"Yeah, figure I may as well check with Mr. Nash, see if any of those supply caravans got anything good in. I'm about to start the engine, so I'll see you in a few minutes, alright?"

We both said our farewells and I released the button on my earpiece to slip my goggles down over my eyes. A minute passed before I was tearing down the road to Primm, giving a small wave to the Geckos watching me up the western ridge. Some idiot ran out into the road in front of me, waving his arms like an idiot. I slammed on the brakes and nearly crashed the motorcycle to avoid running the bastard over. When the bike stopped, I practically tore my goggles off to glare at him. The man was dirty, dressed in a soiled t-shirt and jeans, with a sleeveless black leather jacket over top. I recalled that the convicts at Primm had worn similar clothing, but I wasn't going to judge him on that.

"Hello... can you- can you help me?" He asked, stuttering a little under my gaze.

"Sure, let me find you a pamphlet about safety around motor vehicles," I answered sarcastically, then rolled my eyes and calmed down a bit. "What's wrong?"

"My girl is trapped by geckos on the ridge and I can't get to her. Please, she's going to die!"

I glanced at one of the Geckos watching us from the area he indicated, but the little guy just shrugged. I gave the man a grim smile and a nod, then looked to ED-E.

"Watch my bike while I deal with this," I told my Robot Buddy. He beeped acknowledgement, and I walked up the steep incline to the ridge. As soon as I was out of sight, a few geckos waddled up to me, waving and squeaking reassurances that they had _not_ trapped any humans since I talked to them. I'd already had a feeling that the guy was suspicious, and I trusted the Geckos over him. A laser blast interrupted the squeaks, and I glanced back over the ridge to see a pile of ash where the man had been. ED-E just beeped and wobbled in the air; his version of a shrug. God I love my Robot Buddy. After hugs all around for the Gecko pack, I mounted my vehicle once more and continued down the road to Primm, my good mood remaining with me the whole way.

Primm was looking much better than it had the last time I'd been there. Upon annexing the town, the NCR had also sent in a small construction team to help spruce up the place. The numerous rusted cars had been moved out of sight, all of the street lamps were functioning again, and the rubble on the underpass leading towards the Mojave Outpost had been cleared. The team was working on clearing the destroyed houses in the residential district when I parked my motorcycle outside Mr. Nash's store. My eyes automatically drifted towards the Bison Steve hotel, and I couldn't resist a sigh of relief when I saw the door boarded up and numerous 'DO NOT ENTER' signs posted. Even the faintest temptation to enter that hellhole was denied now thanks to the signs and threat of legal action.

I pocketed the keys to my motorcycle and found myself met by an old fashioned cowboy in sunglasses, with a deputy's star pinned to his leather vest. Finally it made sense why Beagle was so ticked yesterday. He'd been removed from legal authority, and was sore at me for it.

"Are you Rain Nero?" The deputy asked, crossing his arms.

"That I am. Just stopping in with Mr. Nash before reporting to Lieutenant Hayes," I answered, "Is there a problem, Deputy?"

"You're damn right there's a problem. That motorcycle is stolen NCR property."

What the hell was with people trying to take my bike today?!

"Then why was it just sitting in that truck for anyone to take?" I took a deep breath and made my points. "The only reason you're so interested is due to the fact that I found the keys. But by all means, take the motorcycle. Take the only thing that makes me viable as a first responder to situations that would otherwise take _weeks_ for the NCR to get around to. The only reason _you're even here_ is because I made a push to get something done. Where was the NCR when Primm was overrun by convicts? Where was the NCR when Goodsprings had to face an assault by the Powder Gangers. I might also bring up the point that the Powder Gangers escaped on the NCR's watch. While you go and remind your boss about that, I'm going to get supply support to Sloan. Which, gasp, would take a lot longer to get there otherwise."

No longer feeling safe to leave my motorcycle at Nash's, I remounted it and started the engine, taking advantage of the Deputy's hesitation. I parked again at the NCR camp and stepped into the command tent, leaving ED-E to guard the bike with instructions to use nonlethal measures only. Hayes was reading a letter when I entered, but upon seeing me, he quickly folded it and slipped the document into his coat pocket.

"So, what's this about the NCR trying to confiscate my motorcycle?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"Technically, the truck that you got it from _is_ NCR property. I've tried to dissuade them from it, but as things stand there are orders to reclaim your vehicle should the opportunity arise," Hayes explained, "While I work on getting this sorted out, I suggest you return to Goodsprings, or at least go on foot."

"Got to love how people from the NCR keep backstabbing me when all I do is help out," I shook my head, "Until the NCR rescinds the order, you'll see no more assistance from me."

I left the tent, ignoring whatever farewell the Lieutenant had to give, and took a look at my bike. No less than three people were unconscious around it, one still twitching from the electricity that had hit him. It felt wrong to make a third party suffer, but the more I brought the motorcycle to NCR territory, the more they'd get frustrated at the failure to capture it. Perhaps frustrated enough to come after me instead. If they attacked me, there was too high a risk of losing myself to my dark instinct and killing them. That's when shit would really hit the fan. I got my weekend back, but definitely not the way I wanted. As I mounted my motorcycle once more, I had to ask my Robot Buddy something.

"You have a lot of music on you hard drive, right?"

An affirmative beep, and a list of songs was downloaded onto my Pip-Boy. I checked it over, just scrolling through. Then, I found the one song I had never expected to hear again, a little song posted in 2010 on Youtube. How ED-E managed to get it was beyond me, since the world seemed largely stuck in the 50's. A lot of ED-E's quirks and features begged a few questions, but I classified most of them as Things Man Was Not Meant To Know. Still, the fact that he had the song explained just how ED-E had managed to travel from the East Coast without getting completely destroyed. I reached down and took the sunglasses from one of the unconscious NCR men, finding them just the right size to fit comfortably. With my mood swelling once more, I declared to my Robot Buddy,

"ED-E... Let's Brodyquest."

* * *

I blinked, finding myself back in my shack with the last notes of Brodyquest fading into silence.

"What just..." I looked at ED-E and trailed off, seeing my Robot Buddy with a cowboy hat perched atop his frame, a string of green Mardi Gras beads hanging off his blaster, and a box of freshly-baked donuts on the bed.

"Where did you get those?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. ED-E just shrugged, and I narrowed my eyes at him. "Let us never speak of this again."

ED-E flew out, likely to keep getting useful materials for fabrication. I noted with some amusement that he was still decked out in beads and cowboy hat, which would lead to some odd questions no doubt. I grabbed a donut from the box, melting at the taste of real chocolate and sprinkles. It was still early in the morning, and I had nothing to do but relax. With that in mind, I stripped out of my gear, unzipped the upper half of my jumpsuit, and plopped down on the bed with _Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor _to just chill out for a while. The book was an interesting collection of tips on trading, some of which I definitely could put to use.

At around noon, Sunny burst in, panting heavily. I just raised an eyebrow and turned to the next page.

"Some wanderer got attacked by coyotes," She said after catching her breath. "Did my best to run 'em off, but he's in bad shape and Doc could use the help."

"Alright, Sunny. Calm down and have a donut," I said, taking one of the cream-filled ones with maple icing. She opened her mouth to speak, probably to panic more, but I silenced her with the pastry. While she sorted that out, I dog-eared the page I was on and closed the book, then rose from my bed. Doc's wasn't far from my shack, just up the road past the abandoned schoolhouse. I entered and immediately went to the sink to wash my hands, then reported to the medical room. A black-haired hispanic man was lying on the table, stripped down to his underwear. I could see the numerous bites and scratches all over his arms and legs, including a nasty one that barely avoided breaking the skin on his neck.

"Hands washed?" Doc asked, not even looking at me as he dabbed at a wound with a cloth soaked in alcohol.

"Aye sir," I replied, "Just tell me where you need me."

"Legs."

I prepped a cloth of my own and began cleaning the bites there, wondering why Doc wasn't going the faster route by using stimpaks. The only reason I could think of was an allergy to one of the ingredients.

"He has an allergy?" I questioned.

"One in a million chance of bad luck to be born with an allergy to Xander root," Doc confirmed, "The old pre-war chemical type of stimpak would work, but those are much harder to come by than the home-made ones."

"Makes sense. I'll go have a chat with the coyote pack after this. I swear if they're getting over-territorial I'll punt the alpha halfway to Korea," I grumbled. Between the two of us, we got the patient's wounds all cleaned and bandaged. It'd take a day or two for the patient's voice to recover. Figuring I'd do my good deed for the day, which I cleared with Doc, I took the patient's N99 10mm pistol for a cleaning and repair job. While I was sorting through his belongings for all of the extra magazines, I ran across something that made my blood run cold. On a small length of thread hung seven Sunset Sarsaparilla Star Caps. With the necklace in hand, I strode to the bed where the patient was resting.

"You don't have to speak, but there are a few things I need to know," I said, "If moving your head hurts, just blink once for yes, twice for no."

One blink. I took a calming breath and asked my questions.

"Do you know what these stars are?"

A single blink. Okay, there was a start, now for the tough questions.

"Did you get all of them just by drinking Sunset Sarsaparilla?"

One blink, with a raised eyebrow of confusion.

"Are you being _absolutely honest_ with me?"

One blink and wide, fearful eyes. Oh wow, I think I actually put the fear of me in him with that question. Now I felt a little guilty...

"Alright, calm down. I had to be sure. Some people are hunting these caps, thinking they lead to a grand treasure. Those people are willing to do _anything_ to get their hands on the caps, even kill for them. Whatever reason you were collecting them, I suggest you throw them away when you get out of here. They're terrible luck."

One blink, and he was shaking a little now. I felt bad for scaring him, but until Sunset Star Radio was up and broadcasting the warnings, I had to pick up the slack where I saw it.

"You're fine, don't worry. I'll leave the caps with your stuff and let you decide what to do with them once you're healed up. For now, I'm going to go deal with the coyotes that hurt you."

Doc was waiting for me outside of the medical room, frowning a bit. I had a feeling he was disappointed in me for my poor bedside manner.

"I'm more of a field medic," I admitted, grinning sheepishly at the old man. Mitchell just facepalmed and sighed in reply. Once I'd left Doc's home, I dropped by my shack, unsurprised to find a much larger pile of scrap material building up against the side. ED-E always seemed to work faster than seemingly possible when he wasn't watched. I tuned to the frequency I'd set up to call him when he was out 'in the field' and tapped my headset button once. A beep soon filtered through the headset, questioning in tone.

"Heading over to the coyote den for some business. Shouldn't take too long. If I don't check in after twenty minutes, assume the worst and go in lasers blasting."

When ED-E let out an affirmative beep, I went into the shack and dropped off the patient's N99, then buckled on my belt. I was seriously considering buying some leather and making it more of a harness with a few extra pockets or a quick-draw holster on the chest, but those plans could wait until later. I walked the main road in front of Chet's store and Trudy's saloon, loading a round into Cobb's revolver with each step. Once all six were loaded I flipped the loading gate shut, eased down the hammer, and returned the weapon to its holster. The temptation to spin the revolver like in the movies was there, but I didn't want to even begin making a habit of that. As stylish as it may have looked, spinning the revolver would just increase my time between shots and reduce my aiming speed. I popped a magazine into my Hi-Power, which shone in the sun with its mirror polish, and debated whether to cock it or not. I left my Ruger Mk III alone. If the meeting with the coyotes came to blows, having a silent pistol wouldn't do much good. Besides, 9mm could be reloaded, .22 rimfire could not, making the former less expensive to fire in the long run.

Once the road began to curve, I passed into the desert, heading for the map marker Sunny had provided when I first left for Primm. The pack I was looking for lived in a cave at that marker, and what I found inside the den would determine how I dealt with the situation. If the attack was a one-time thing, I'd let them off with a scolding. If I found any corpses...

I crouched down to enter the cave, which was carved out under a large expanse of rock. All signs pointed to it being naturally formed, but I couldn't place how that happened with its placement. The sound of happy barks and running paws met my ears. In under two seconds I'd gone from alone to _surrounded_ by coyote pups, yipping and barking and fighting for my attention. I calmed them with a touch and stepped further into the cave, glad to see its ceiling was high enough for me to stand upright. A few patches of bioluminescent fungi provided a gentle light to the den, but shadows still were plentiful. Natural stone pillars dotted the area, and a barrier of sturdy rock kept me from seeing too far in. I took a breath through my nose to get an idea what I was going to be looking at, and nearly choked on the foul stench of decaying bodies. These coyotes were man-eaters, and had been for a long while.

My walk increased to a long angry stride, Hi-Power and Knife finding their way into my hands. I rounded the stone wall and found a scene straight from a horror movie. A small trench full of bloodied water was gouged into the cave's floor, filled with bones and gnawed scraps of flesh or cloth. A large male coyote missing his right eye and sporting a number of scars was chewing on the recently deceased corpse of a young woman, while his mate, the den mother, ate a young man in leather armor. A woman in a brown robe had been left to rot against the cave wall, not even touched by the coyotes. The Alpha and Den Mother didn't even register my approach, content to continue their meal. One of the other coyotes, a young adolescent, knew what was coming, and whined fearfully, placing his paws over his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into the red light, "But I can't save you."

The report of my Hi-Power echoed in the enclosed spaces, and new blood mixed with the water. It was soon joined by my tears. I couldn't leave a single coyote alive. They had all acquired the taste for human flesh, and the pups had already learned that it was 'okay' to eat and hunt humans. Maybe the pups could have been trained out of it, but the process would have taken far too long, and I didn't know of anyone who would even be willing to take in the pups. It felt so _wrong_ to kill them, like I was tearing out my own heart with each shot. I couldn't keep my hands steady when I got to the pups, but I did my damnedest to make sure their deaths were quick and painless.

When I finally walked out of the cave, I just collapsed into a waiting Sunny's arms, sobbing openly into her chest.

* * *

**Author Notes: **Sorry this one took so long, and that it was mostly a dull chapter. I had several other options that could have been taken, such as proceeding with the Sloan quests, or continuing the Mojave Outpost chain, which would have led to Nipton. Instead, Rain gets a permanent residence, the NCR continue being dicks to him, and Ulysses makes a cameo.

The flag-burning ceremony is mostly improvised, but I did do a bit of research on the standard procedures for it, and made sure to get them accurate. Having a dirtied flag like the one on Victor's Shack is actually pretty disrespectful. Most of the lines in Rain's speech were copied and edited from _I am the Flag _by Ruth Apperson Rous.

For anyone curious about the in-universe date right now, it is October 16, 2281. The events of the Fallout New Vegas intro take place on October 11th, and the gameplay begins on October 19th. Rain's arrival at 12:00AM kickstarted some events, but others still haven't taken place yet.

I also got a baseline cover image done, which means anyone who was turned off by my avatar will no longer have to look at it on the listing. Yay!

_Until next time, Everyone!_


	6. Entry 006

**Disclaimer: Fallout is owned by Bethesda.**

**Review Replies:**

**AgoTheTiny:** ED-E... well, I think the game seriously underplayed his usefulness. Obviously this was meant to balance ED-E, but yeah. The Motorcycle is there as a replacement for Fast Travel, and even if ED-E hadn't found the keys to it, he would have just scanned the lock and made a duplicate key from scrap metal. Anyways, that box of donuts was just a small Wild Wasteland moment to lighten the mood. Look up Brodyquest on Youtube and you might understand what happened while Rain blanked out (If my understanding of certain traditions with Mardi Gras beads are right, ED-E very well may have gotten laid in the process).

**Assozat: **As always, positive reviews are appreciated... and it's nice to see that you're enjoying it so much.

**shadow wolf 501:** He'll show up again at some point... but I'm not quite sure to what capacity. These characters write themselves sometimes, despite my best laid plans for them.

**006**

* * *

_"Welcome back to the Mr. New Vegas Show, the show with, in my opinion – which I respect – the best-looking audience around. Somebody prove me wrong? I've got some news for you. A special ceremony was carried out recently to retire an Old World Flag. The young man leading the event had this to say. 'Living in the present is fine, but if we don't respect the past and learn from it, we're doomed to repeat its mistakes.' This news brought to you by Goodsprings. Goodsprings: come for the water, stay for the Geckos. More classics coming right up for you, so stay tuned."_

"Living in the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter," I grumbled, annoyed that all three fans I'd fixed up were having very little success in battling the desert heat. ED-E, of course, was performing his usual scavenging routine, and cleaning up Goodsprings in the process. Some of the old ruins had been completely stripped down to their foundations, last I'd seen. I wondered if ED-E was holding out on me, hiding most of his full capabilities. I mean, yeah, he showed the multi-tool function on his blaster, but the little robot got too much work done for the amount of time he was out and about.

"Mojave Express Delivery!" A voice called, knocking on my door. Good lord, it had only been two days since I placed the order. I was quite impressed that they'd managed to lug an entire refrigerator, computer terminal, and a bunch of linens across the wasteland in that span of time. I opened the door and saw a young woman there, dressed in a cowboy hat and leather jacket. One of the two-headed cows, loaded down with a full pack, was just a meter or two up the road behind her.

"Let's see here, working refrigerator, terminal, and 'assorted sheets, blankets, and rugs'," The lady actually air-quoted around that bit, reading off of a small slip of paper and looking vaguely amused. "Money's already been forwarded to Old Johnson at the Primm outpost, just need you to sign to confirm the delivery arrived."

"Yeah, I have a pen inside," I said, slipping inside my shack to grab the writing implement and a clipboard. While I signed for the package, the courier was trying to get her beast of burden under control. The two-headed cow was content to just stand there and continue eating the thin grass along the road side.

"Dammit, Betsy! I told you I'd let you graze after we got back to Primm!" The courier grumbled.

"You're new at this, aren't you?" I chuckled, debating whether to give the cow a nudge in the direction of obedience or not.

"I've worked with Brahmin before back as a caravaneer, but Betsy is the most stubborn cow I've ever met," The woman swept off her hat and wiped her forehead, revealing her fiery red hair in the process. It was just a few shades brighter than Sunny's, and from a distance the pair would have been able to pass for sisters. With a gentle smile, I stepped forward and placed my hand along the back of Betsy's neck. I didn't have much chance to test out my animal empathy, but I figured this was as good a time as any.

"What are you doing there?" The woman demanded.

"I'm a low-tier psychic. Figured I may as well put it to good use. If you're going to be a courier, you can't be fighting with your partner at every turn," I explained. Despite being changed in color to a rusty red the brahmin's hide was much like a pre-war cow's in texture, still covered in a short coat of fur to match. After finishing a similar trance to what I'd experienced with the Gecko Alpha, I took a step back from Betsy, who just blinked at me sleepily. She then turned to her owner and wandered up, bumping the lady with her snout.

"Huh, not sure if any of that magic mumbo-jumbo is going to do some good, but thanks for the effort anyways," The courier said, "Name's Cass, by the way. Or 'Rose of Sharon Cassidy', depending on whether you want to get knocked out."

"Rain Nero," I offered in kind. Cass frowned at my last name, subtly adjusting the strap that held an old over-under shotgun across her back.

"Nero, that sounds like a Legion name," She said after a moment.

"Nero was the name of a Roman Emperor over two thousand years ago," I offered, "I'm an indirect descendant, and I figured this was a better last name than some random jumble of letters that doesn't have a proper root in any language I could find."

"Learn something new every day then, I guess," Cass shrugged, moving her hand away from the strap.

Our business was rather standard from there. She unloaded my delivery from Betsy's back and was kind enough to help me get it all situated. For that, I tossed a twenty cap tip her way and a promise that I would ask for her by name if I needed anything else delivered.

"Well, I don't really want to stick with it," Cass admitted. "Just trying to get some more caps so I can make my way to New Vegas, and pay my respects to the place where my caravan died."

"Ouch, Powder Gangers?" I asked, remembering Ringo had similar troubles.

"Damn NCR wouldn't tell me who did it. Just claimed that it was 'burned to ash' and kept me holed up at the Mojave Outpost with the other caravans. They only decided to let me go after some big shot gave them Primm."

"Oh come on," I grumbled, "The NCR may be assholes, or at least most of them are, but it was either them or an ex-con. You don't get in prison for spreading rainbows and good cheer."

Cass's jaw dropped, and I just grinned at her.

"Rain, you got a minute?" Hayes' voice filtered in over my headset. Oh, of _course_ something had to come up to ruin my good mood.

"Currently talking with a nice lady, Lieutenant," I replied, making sure my voice held every ounce of annoyance I could put into it.

"Oh... well, I wish you the best of luck," Hayes coughed awkwardly.

"No, _no_. Not like that!" I laughed, "No offense to Miss Cass here, but my mother _warned me_ about fiery redheads. Just give me a few minutes to wrap things up."

"So, what did your mom _say_ about redheads?" Cass was wearing an evil grin now, and I felt that my existence, especially my nethers, were in grave danger.

"Oh not too much. Claimed they're usually great in bed, but can be a bit high-maintenance. The big, major point is that if one is giving a look like what you're giving me right now, to _run the crap away!_"

I'd been edging to the right for the entirety of that, and on the last words, I broke into a dead sprint for the Prospector Saloon. I did not stop until I was safely inside, hiding under the edge of the pool table furthest from the door. After a few minutes, Trudy came over and knocked on the table.

"Is she gone?" I asked.

"The redhead from the Mojave Express? Yeah. Not sure what you said to her, but she was laughing the whole way. Now get out from under there, I _know_ you haven't eaten yet today."

Once I was out of my hiding spot, I found Sunny giving me an eerily similar look to the one Cass had.

"High-maintenance, huh?" The huntress asked, crossing her arms. Oh balls, they had _talked_.

"You're more of an auburn than red. Entirely different color!" I tried to placate her, slowly backing towards the rear hallway. "Besides, it was a generalization, and I need to go make sure ED-E doesn't overheat, bye!"

For the second time that day I was running for my life. Unfortunately for me, Sunny was a hunter, and had years of experience tracking down prey. The things Sunny did to me once she'd caught me behind the Goodsprings Gas Station were horrors I will not repeat. To put it simply, I was _very_ submissive and docile once she started dragging me back towards Trudy's Saloon.

Women. Can't live without them, and if you try to live with them, you'll just end up being reduced to a slave of their whims.

I gave ED-E a pleading look as he hovered past, but my Pip-Boy dinged and I found a note from my robot buddy.

_You're on your own with this one. -ED-E._

"Betrayal!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, shaking my fist at the eyebot.

"Hush, Rain," Sunny demanded. My mouth closed instantly.

* * *

As the sun set, I stood at the Goodsprings Cemetery once more, standing just past Six's grave. My eyes swept north towards New Vegas, its bright lights and tall buildings already visible against a darkening skyline.

"It's been a week, you know," I commented to Six's spirit. I could feel her presence at my back, attentive as always. "At midnight, it'll be the eighteenth, and I'll have spent a full seven days in the Wasteland."

I tapped idly on the cheap wooden fence separating me from a long fall into Radscorpion territory, considering what else I wanted to share with my disembodied listener.

"Some part of me feels like I should be searching for that robed guy, or looking for a way back to my time. If I'm being completely honest though... I don't really want to go back. Here, I can do something that feels like it matters, and watch the ripples of a single action I've taken spread out through the land. Back home I could never feel like I'd accomplished anything worthwhile. Hell, in all truth I _hadn't_ accomplished anything worthwhile. I was wasting my life away in front of a computer screen, or taking support calls from idiots that natural selection should have weeded out ages ago. Maybe that's a bit harsh, but if you're calling me because your computer _isn't plugged in, _you don't have the required IQ to actually operate one in the first place! Thankfully, I don't have to deal with that crap here."

I took a few seconds calm myself down, then continued.

"That's not to say there aren't things I miss. There's so _much_ that I miss. I suppose it boils down to me trading a life of safety for a break from the monotony. Picked up a mild hero complex somewhere along that line, but it's not necessarily a bad thing. If I were to meet that robed man again... I'm not quite sure what I'd say to him. I'm torn between thanking him and punching him in the face."

The sound of boot steps coming up the hill. I turned and was not surprised to see Sunny standing there, looking around carefully.

"Rain?" She asked, seeming a bit worried. "Were you talking to yourself?"

"Nope. Not at all," I replied, leaning against the fence and smiling.

"Okay, then why are you up here all alone?"

Cheyenne padded forward and sat down on her haunches right in front of Six's grave, tilting her head to the side in confusion. The husky narrowed her eyes and barked once, pawing lightly at the edge of the dirt mound. I'd heard that animals were sensitive to spiritual activity to some extent, but that was more commonly associated with cats. Six's spirit sent a burst of amusement my way, and Cheyenne shook herself like she was shaking off water.

"What are you up to, girl?" Sunny asked, making her way to her dog. She looked at the tombstone, which I'd had ED-E carve out of stone with his precision laser to replace the cheap wooden cross. If I could find out the identities of the other deceased, I'd extend the same courtesy, but nobody had come forward yet.

"Courier Six, unknown to October 11, 2281 AD," The huntress read aloud. "You were talking to her?"

"Eeyup," I confirmed, "Instead of shuffling off to whatever proper afterlife there may be, Six decided to stick around. Not quite sure _why_, but I appreciate the emotional support she provides."

"Right, first psychic powers and now ghosts. You really are insane," Sunny muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Things are allowed to exist despite our opinions, Sunny," I said, "The bombs stripped away all of the convenient disguises and exposed this world for just how weird it can actually be. All one needs to know is where to look."

"Ugh, I hate it when you go all _philosophical_," Sunny grumbled at me. "I heard Hayes called you earlier. What did he want?"

"Bit of good news with that. He's making a push with command to allow me to keep my motorcycle, and everyone from 1st Company is backing him. That whole mess should be sorted out soon and I can get back on the road to deal with random people's problems again. Or more likely be roped into taking down more groups of Powder Gangers."

Sunny walked around the grave to lean on the fence next to me, seeming a bit saddened by the news.

"You don't want me to go, do you?" I asked, following my gut instinct on what she was feeling. I got a weak smile in return, proving that instinct right.

"Rain, you're the first friend I've had around my age. All of the settlers are either unmarried or too old to have kids, but they're so focused on their work it's hard to just get one to stand around and talk like this," Sunny let out a small sigh, "I'm probably the only person that's actually been born in Goodsprings since the town was established."

"Sunny, you know the type of person I am. Do you really think I can just stay here in Goodsprings when there are people out there who need my help? The only reason I'm not out there right now is to make a point to the NCR."

"Then why?" Sunny demanded, fixing me with a fierce glare "Why waste time getting that shack fixed up? What point is there if you're just going to run off at the drop of a hat?"

"Everyone needs somewhere to call home," I answered, "Somewhere they know they can go back to, with people they can trust."

"Huh. Where did you come from, anyhow?" Sunny asked, content with my answer enough to let the topic go.

"Ohio originally. Strange guy in a brown robe came into town, pretty much camped outside of my apartment for a few days. When he left, I figured following him to find out why he was watching me was worth the trouble. A while later, I found him out in the sands, miles from civilization, looking at a big stone ring. He babbled off some cryptic BS about me already knowing who he was, and walked through the ring. Only... he didn't come out the other side. Me, being a giant idiot, followed him. The next thing I knew I was waking up outside of the Powder Ganger camp near Jean Sky Diving."

I was close, so close to telling her the truth, but she had to ask the right question before I let that detail go.

"How long did it take to get across the country? Ohio's east coat, right?"

"A little over a week. I had my car for most of the trip, but it broke down at a town just before I hit the desert," I remembered fondly my old sky blue Prius, which had served me well for the short time I'd owned it. I hoped whoever had ended up owning her had treated the car well.

"Wait, you actually had a working car? Those are _rare_," Sunny whistled. "So what was it like, growing up in Ohio?"

"Boring, to be honest. The bombs hadn't hit there, so everything was business-as-usual for what remained of America. My small town had the advantages of a whole bunch of farmland around it, so we didn't go hungry either. Most people were gravitating more towards Cleveland and Columbus, so overpopulation didn't become an issue either."

"You left that paradise to follow some random guy?" Sunny gaped at me, "Wow, you really _are_ an idiot."

"Paradise is another odd concept," I chuckled, "One man's paradise is another's hell. As I told Six here, I wasn't going anywhere with my life in that town. Followed the robed man was my ticket to adventure and a meaningful existence."

Sunny let out a long sigh and shook her head, moving away from the fence.

"Rain... I need you to come with me to Doc Mitchell's."

I felt an odd chill in my heart at those words.

"Why?" I asked, edging away from her.

"Just please, come with me and don't put up a fight."

_She doesn't believe me. Another thing I've trusted her with, and she refuses it once again._ I felt a surge of anger and annoyance at Sunny. Time and time again, she treated me like I didn't know what I was talking about, like I was two steps from an insane asylum with every action I took.

"Doc was the first person I told. He believes me, why can't you?"

"Damn it Rain, these things just don't happen! Psychic powers, magic rings, ghosts! They're just fantasy and illusion. I don't know where you really came from or how you got here, but it certainly wasn't in a car from halfway across the country!" Sunny snapped. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and walked away.

"Where the hell are you going?" Sunny shouted after me.

"Away," I replied in a dead monotone. I had to get away from her, before I said or did something I'd regret later. Sunny didn't deserve my anger and wrath. She simply didn't know, and even if I told her the truth, the final secret, she wouldn't accept it.

"Because I'm right!" Sunny declared.

"If your narrow-mindedness helps you sleep at night, then ignore the world around you. It's no longer my problem," I stated automatically. The auburn-haired huntress let out a small choked gasp, but I was already gone.

* * *

By Tuesday morning, everyone had heard about the fight between Sunny and I in some shape or form. Of course, everyone automatically took her side because I was the new guy around. As a result, I could barely go anywhere without receiving glares from the townsfolk, with Doc Mitchell's being the only exception. Doing so would put the doctor in an awkward position though, so I dropped off the cleaned pistol for Doc's patient and holed up in my shack. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing to do. I had running water, a stock of food in the refrigerator, the stove was electric, so I could cook if needed, and ED-E had dumped the data on his hard drive to my terminal.

Whoever had designed ED-E's file structure needed to be sent back to take classes on intelligent design. It was amazing he was able to do anything at all with his file system resembling a Where's Waldo book. While I couldn't risk touching his core OS files until I was absolutely sure I had the language down, I _could_ re-organize the rest of his data and write a few auto-sorters once I'd examined the coding language. With those in place, ED-E would be able to run searches much faster, and probably uncover a few things that had been hiding in his files. I didn't expect too much to come of it, but it wouldn't hurt to check.

By the middle of the morning my ability to care about what the people of Goodsprings thought had completely ran out. I hoped my inability to give a fuck was only a temporary condition, or living in the town in the future would be a _very_ interesting experience. I figured it'd be more fruitful to spend a few days away from town, and let Sunny work out her own issues. Within minutes I had everything packed and ready to go, and I sent a quick message to ED-E telling him my plan. By the time I'd finished locking the Deadbolt installed on my shack's door, the little robot had torn across town in Travel Mode. As much as I could tell I'd regret it, I went to where I'd stashed my motorcycle at the Goodsprings Gas Station and started the engine. It felt good to be back on the bike, even if the circumstances that led me to it weren't the best.

There is one warning I must give. Boredom is one hell of a drug. It will turn the most sane person into a reckless maniac. Being cooped up in my shack, while productive in some aspects, had left me completely bored. I drove down the road, completely ignoring the glares I received in my wake. Sunny was at the door of the Prospector Saloon, and her face bore an expression of heartbreak and remorse so intense it almost stopped me from leaving.

Almost.

I reached Jean Sky Diving within two minutes, then turned my bike to the North road. I hadn't been to Sloan yet, and there was a Powder Ganger camp in the area to take out if the opportunity arose. Even if doing so would break my 'no helping the NCR' rule, I really didn't have anything better to do, and I wasn't stocked for any sort of long expedition into the wild. There was no way I was pulling a Bear Grylls either. Though I did just get an idea for a demotivational poster...

The I-15 was mostly intact, though there were a few rough, broken patches which challenged my riding skills a bit. For a few miles, there was nothing of note, just a few broken or illegible billboards. Eventually, I came to an intersection, and a scene of horror. A camper had been turned on its side, and all around it were the rotting corpses of a man, a woman, and no less than three Brahmin. Everything of value had been stripped from the remains, and the woman's body... I couldn't even begin to describe what happened to her without feeling the need to throw up. My mind made the connection, and I realized that what I was looking at was Ringo's caravan. I also felt a pang of anger at the man. If he'd passed back north to New Vegas, why hadn't he buried his dead like a decent human being? It wasn't much, but I corrected the mistake the best I could by having ED-E cremate the bodies with his laser and digging a small grave for them. By tying a rope to the camper, I was able to flip it back over, and drag it to rest next to the grave, where it would hopefully remain as a marker.

My eyes caught sight of a sign by the intersection, displaying a stylized man in a striped prison jumpsuit that looked ready to strangle somebody. A caption read '_Warning. Hitch Hikers may be escaped prisoners.'_ The sign bore some of time's wear, but it looked distinctly Post-War. I moved over to the train tracks running parallel with the road leading east, and crouched down to examine them more thoroughly. The tracks were in far better condition than they should have been, someone had repaired them after the bombs fell. The NCR, perhaps? But that would mean I was dangerously close to the NCR Correctional Facility. If that was true, then why hadn't I encountered a single Powder Ganger yet?

ED-E Let out a blast of music less than a second before a hailstorm of bullets whizzed past me.

"You guys are late," I called, "Seriously, I had time to dig a grave and hold a miniature funeral while you were getting here!"

The only response came in the form of more bullets, all of which missed me. Apparently the Powder Gangers were still complete and utter crap at range. My Stormtrooper Academy theory was looking more and more correct every time I encountered the convicts. I just stood there for a while, not even trying to fight back as they poured all of their bullets at me. The most I had to do was take one step to the left, and every shot went wide. _Click. Click click._

"How the fuck is this asshole still alive?!" One of the Powder Gangers demanded, throwing down his empty pistol. _Showtime_.

The distance between me and the group of six Powder Gangers was crossed in the blink of an eye. Two were spaced evenly enough that I was able to use my running start to grab both by the forehead and execute a dive-roll, slamming them into the ground with enough force to take them out of the fight for a bit, if not outright kill them. Just for the sake of fun, I grabbed the pool cue lying beside one of the pair and gave it a light test swing. When I was younger, the way of the sword had interested me enough that I began to study and teach myself. With my medical condition I'd been steered towards styles that required precision and speed rather than brute strength. I discovered that I had a natural talent for European Fencing, and Japanese Iaido. It was a shame that money and placement prevented me from ever pursuing those more intently, but once again, my past experience put me a level above my current enemies. With my improved natural abilities, I didn't need to worry about holding back either.

Four enemies still left, all wielding an assortment of knives, pipes, and pool cues. I wasn't remotely worried, and ED-E would step in if he felt I needed the help. I stepped into range of the knife wielder, flicking my glorified stick to deflect the predictable overhand strike, then shifting my angle and slamming my improvised weapon into his throat. The man stumbled back, choking, and I slashed my knife across his neck in a quick-draw before turning to the remaining three with both weapons in hand. Seeing an opportunity, I flicked the blood from my knife into a pipe-using convict's eyes, then rammed the blade through his heart while he was blinded. Morale was low with the two remaining Powder Gangers, and it wouldn't take much more for them to flee in terror.

"Wow. The NCR must be really incompetent if they can't take you guys down. I'm not even trying, and I've got two kills and two knockouts. What do you think your chances are? How about your boss's? If you'd just taken your time out like good little boys, you wouldn't have had to meet me," I laughed. It sounded brutally villainous, a madman's laugh. The Powder Ganger with a pool cue turned and fled, but hadn't made it three steps before my knife flashed out of my hand and buried itself in his back. Upon witnessing this, a trickling noise was heard, and a liquid darkened I-15's concrete at the final Powder Ganger's feet. Feeling a little disgusted, I drew Joe Cobb's revolver and shot the man, then turned and executed the unconscious Powder Gangers from a distance.

"Just like we talked about, ED-E. Standard procedure for Powder Gangers is to loot the weapons, then Ash the bodies. Leave behind the improvised stuff, it's not worth the weight," I said, stepping over to the runner and retrieving my knife from his back. On the eastern horizon I could make out a rusty fortress with high watchtowers at its four compass points. The NCR Correctional Facility. As much as I wanted the Powder Ganger Conflict resolved, running into their fortress unprepared would be suicide. So I turned away, and pushed the NCRCF to the back of my mind.

The rest of the road north to Sloan was uneventful. The addition of a few train cars with their doors rusted closed wasn't all that exciting. I _did_ get to see the Yangtze Memorial though, with its weather-worn steel cross standing tall and proud atop a hill. I'd have to ask ED-E for the history behind it when time allowed, since I'd never heard of Yangtze before. Warning signs were starting to pop up more frequently, new ones proclaiming '_Danger! Deathclaws Ahead!'_ A roadblock of made of sand bags was set up further down the road, but was facing north towards New Vegas rather than south. A little further, and I could see a series of four buildings constructed from sheet metal, tucked in along the cliffs and covered on its fourth side by wooden fencing.

A man came running up to me from the road block, notable for his rough gray beard and serious demeanor. He was dressed in overalls and carried a sledgehammer on his shoulder like a weapon, which it had been used as at least once if that light stain on the metal was any indication.

"Hold up! There are Deathclaws all over the damn place north of here. I'd turn back if I were you. If you want to get to New Vegas, you're better off heading east from Primm and then looping north. It's a heck of a lot safer," He said, "Then again, with that fancy motorcycle of yours, you may be able to outpace a Deathclaw. Wouldn't recommend it though."

"Are you the foreman?" I asked, cutting the engine and dismounting my bike.

"That I am. Name's Chomps Lewis."

"Alright Mr. Lewis," I said, folding my hands behind my back, "My name's Rain Nero. I'm here to help out around the camp. With ED-E here, I can probably repair any machines that are broken down, and I have some light medical experience if any of your workers are injured. Just tell me where you need me."

"Huh, been an awful long time since I've seen a Good Samaritan running around," Chomps chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder. "Well, our generator hasn't worked since we got it, and Snuffles' leg is injured. Unless if you can take on a Deathclaw, or have a few crates of dynamite stashed away there isn't much else I can think of."

"Dealing with your Deathclaw infestation is going to take a whole different kind of creativity," I sighed, "But I'll see what I can do about Snuffles and the Generator."

* * *

**Author Notes**: I'm sorry that this chapter took so long to get out to you all. I had to scrap it once and rewrite it because I very nearly killed off some characters, and the entire situation was just a little bit _off_. So, instead, a bit of social drama, Cass is introduced properly, and Rain hits Sloan!

The Powder Ganger arc is slowly drawing to a close, and then the real fun can begin. I'll try to avoid another long delay like this one, but in addition to the rewrite I had some schoolwork to do, and that has to take priority.

For a bit of backstory, Rain(me) is very much specialized in specific weaponry, giving him an advantage with those weapon types where his proper stats would be significantly lower. Any light sword, like the Chinese Officer Sword, Katana, or even the Shishkebab all count within his range of expertise, and can be used regardless of their stat requirements. Going through the Ring scrambled a few memories, so Rain doesn't actually have access to the full range of his capabilities. There is one specific thing that I'm holding back on, because transferring it over into the Wasteland would seriously unbalance Rain, especially with his Psychic abilities available.

ED-E is definitely unbalanced, and with Rain fiddling around with his programming, he's going to get even _more_ unbalanced. Hopefully not to the extent of completely breaking the world, but ED-E alone, without having to deal with in-game constraints, could take out most of the Deathclaws in Quarry Junction right now simply by flying overhead out of their reach.

Edit: Spelling corrections taken care of, and Assozat clearly told me why the flight idea for ED-E wouldn't work. Meh, I wasn't going to use that plan anyways.

_Until next time, Everyone!_

**33**


	7. Entry 00X: On Break

**00X****: On Break**

Hey everyone. Rain here.

Figured I'd give you a little notice, since it's been over a week since my last chapter.

As of right now, I've effectively burned myself out on writing this story. I did too much too quickly and pop went my interest. That's not to say that I'm abandoning it. I'm just going on a short break, potentially pursuing other opportunities now that my writing skills are somewhere close to par.

As for the progress on the next chapter, I have the first section written, and a tiny bit of the second. If you have any further questions, feel free to post a review or PM me, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Until next time, Everyone!


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